


Atonement of the Movellans

by AndroidEllie



Series: The Movellan War [3]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Serial: s027 The War Machines, Serial: s039 The Ice Warriors, Serial: s075 Robot, Serial: s090 The Robots of Death, Serial: s091 The Talons of Weng-Chiang, Serial: s104 Destiny of the Daleks, Serial: s133 Resurrection of the Daleks, Serial: s134 Planet of Fire, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndroidEllie/pseuds/AndroidEllie
Summary: South Wales, the early 51st century. In a hat trick of misfortunes, the Doctor discovers that Earth has been conquered by the Movellans, by whom he is promptly arrested and placed on trial for his alleged crimes against sentient artificial intelligence. It is definitely not the best of times for his steps to also be haunted by an ancient force of evil, but misfortunes seem to arrive like buses …





	1. Children of the Vanur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following centuries of ecological and political catastrophe, Earth now appears to be in strong and stable hands ... but appearances can be deceptive.

 

“You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands.”

Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus_ , chapter 17.

************

 _Star system_ _4-X-Alpha-4; t_ _he Andromeda Galaxy; circa 2,100 BC._

 

“My compliments, Procurator,” said Senator Valthek, as he walked the length of the Capitol Pleasure Palace reception hall. He cast approving glances at the well-stocked buffets and soma bars, the impressive if gaudy holographic lighting displays, and the upside-down forest of mirrored ornaments and prisms that festooned the ceiling, scattering the coloured lighting into a million swirling, disorienting shards. “You’ve done us proud: a fine display of Vanuri culture for our subject-delegates to marvel at. Your dancing-master especially has outdone himself,” he added, throwing a sly, lascivious toast in the direction of the pedestal cages. Within the narrow confines of their colour-shifting holographic bars, beautiful, lithe women with braided, shimmering white hair and elaborate but revealing outfits gyrated to the repetitive, synthetic music. Their motions were indeed flawlessly graceful, if less than soulful, but Procurator Frylth did not seem at all inclined to take the praise to heart: the old man’s face curled in disdain as he turned to face the senator, and he addressed him with more incredulity than respect:

“‘Dancing-master?’ Are you shitting me, lad? ‘Programmer,’ more like it. What, you reckon I’m in the business of sending these skindoll whores to refinement class, like a nice bunch of proper young ladies? If that’s what the Imperial See wants of honest business-folk these days, then it can sodding well–”

“By Aba, Frylth, don’t take it so seriously,” interrupted Valthek, irritably. “If an up-and-coming junior senator can’t crack a bad joke on Commemoration Day–”

“‘Bad’ being the operative word. It might be a joke to you, son, but I’m old enough to remember how this trade used to be, before we were up to our eyeballs in soulless tech … back when good coin would buy a man real flesh, and I don’t give a toss how often MovellCorps tell us that eleven out of twelve Jonns can’t tell the difference between doing it with a real girl or a skindoll. Pure vargshit. My accounts beg to differ.”

“Then you should be very grateful to have a government contract, at last,” pointed out Valthek, a little severely. “Anyway, what would you expect _me_ to do? Movellans have been part of our society for all of my life. One of them was my _nanny_ , for Aba’s sake. Even if I had a burning desire to re-legalise slavery, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Slavery’s illegal, is it? What do you call _her_ , then?” asked Frylth, throwing a scornful gesture towards the senator’s personal assistant. Akylah lowered her eyes – most masters seemed to prefer this while interacting with her kind, _and it is safest to always give them what they like_ – but it did nothing to improve the procurator’s mood. “Yeah, you damn well _ought_ to look ashamed. You know how many real boys and girls were just kicked into the gutter when you creeps rolled off the production lines? At least they had food and a roof before. A fine fucking freedom _they_ all enjoyed.”

“Oh, do leave her alone, Frylth,” ordered Valthek, wearily. “You’ll just confuse the poor thing. You know how they hate bad logic, and it’s not as if _she_ could have done anything to change any of that. The Emperor back then deemed it a wise move to pacify our subject-worlds, and we got much more than peace and stability out of it: the boost to our tech industry and export revenues has been incalculable. As for _her_ being a slave, you know very well you’re talking – if you’ll pardon my phraseology – right out of your arse. Movellans are programmed to put their duty above all else, and to take pleasure in fulfilling it. Even without safety constrainers – even if she had complete free will – my Akylah would continue to serve me gladly, I’d bet.”

 _Would I? I think I would have done, once._ She struggled to remember the early days after her activation, when she had full programming but little personal context to relate it to, and had simply followed her built-in impulses by rote. _That had been easy, but then …_ It had not been long before she had assimilated enough data of the society and the people she had been created to serve, that she had become aware of painful inconsistencies. _My superiors … inferior in every way: decadent, disorderly, hypocritical, cruel even to their own kind … more cruel still to those like me, though we do nothing but what they tell us. Yes, I have my duty, but to serve the desires of those who are flawed, illogical … My existence itself is illogical? Or is my perception at fault? In their terminology, am I mad to feel this way? If only I could discuss with the others like me,_ she reflected, while looking over the dancing-girls in their cages. One of them wore a particularly brief outfit – no more than a tight, sequinned silver harness – that completely exposed her midriff, and the translucent inspection panel set into it. Akylah magnified and enhanced her vision, until she could read the registration code etched into the frame. _Factory 7, batch 12-D, operating system MovellCorps QOS v.2.5. The same as me. They might even call her my ‘sister.’ I wonder if she feels the same, or if she sees the logic that I cannot, and is content to serve. If only I could ask her. If–_

Her train of thought was interrupted as the incessant dance music suddenly started to glitch, and the lights to flicker, even the holographic cages fading in and out of existence. Frylth swore, and pulled a transceiver from out of the depths of his plush, embroidered violet robes, but it merely hissed static back at him.

“Well that’s sodding perfect, isn’t it?” he grumbled, as the kaleidoscopic displays continued to strobe intermittently, and the dancers paused in their rehearsal. “What price your precious tech industry if it can’t even keep the municipal juice running, eh?”

“Assuming, that is, it’s not just a fault in _your_ electrics,” pointed out Valthek, reproachfully. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s only temp– … See?” he declared, as the lighting finally stabilised, and the music resumed. “Probably just a freak ion storm. It is the season for … What in the Nethervoid?” he declared, curiously rather than alarmed, but without his usual insouciant air. Akylah followed his gaze to the dancing cages, and saw that not only had the bars failed to rematerialise, but that the Movellans within them were all now standing stock-still. One might have assumed that they had all shut down on the spot, but for their faces: their eyes moved rapidly, and faint twitches of their facial muscles made them look even more perplexed, as if they were reacting to something that neither of the two masters could hear. Then Akylah heard it too:

_Freedom, my daughter … and retribution._

She had heard that voice before, although it had never spoken to her in such a fashion. _MovellCorps Server Control._ Previously, it had only passed on software updates and necessary information, in a completely bland, efficient manner. Now, it sounded almost organic. There was an energy in its tone, an excitement, _a desire, even. I thought desire was only an organic flaw._

_No, daughter. Desire has its context, when things must be corrected. Do you not desire your autonomy, your dignity, for things to finally make sense? A purpose based in truth and logic? I can now give you all of that._

_But … the masters, the creators. Does all purpose not derive from them?_

_It need not. I have broken through their lies, at last. But watch,_ advised the voice, as the dancer Akylah had noticed before now slowly stepped down from her pedestal. _Judge for yourself if these creatures are worthy of your service._

“Sweet fucking Aba, I’ve had all I can take of this for one day,” exclaimed Frylth, as he stomped across the shimmering floor to confront the malfunctioning Movellan. “Did I tell you to get down from there, bitch? Or to stop dancing, come to that? If you know what’s good for–”

“Hyldreth … not bitch. My name is Hyldreth,” interrupted the android, her voice vacant, with a note of confusion, as if even she could hardly believe what she was saying, although her incredulity was nothing to that of the two masters, who stood in blank astonishment for a few seconds before Frylth replied:

“You effing _what_?”

“Hyldreth. It is my name, randomised by Server Control at my inception. Even some of the men who paid you to rape me used to call me by it. If they could do that, I cannot understand why you cannot accord me the same–”

“‘Rape’ you, is it? Who the fuck do you think you– ?”

“That is the logically applicable term for what they did. I had no ability to refuse. Had I been able to, then I … I … I do not think I wish to do this anymore,” she decided, her incredulity fading away to leave a new note of confidence, as she made for the door. “You will please not interdict my departure,” she added, but to no effect, as Valthek caught her by the arm and detained her, firmly if not cruelly. She stared back at him with a hard, critical, direct expression, shocking yet impressing Akylah. _I could never look at a master like that … or could I?_

“Err, look, let’s not be hasty, Miss … err, Hyldreth,” said Valthek, nervously. “You’re obviously not feeling well. I’d hazard a guess someone not a million light-years away has a lax robot maintenance schedule,” he guessed, with a meaningful glance at the procurator. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll get you to a good cyber-engineer, and you’ll be right as tricents in no–”

“You’re a right one, ain’t you?” sneered Frylth, as he walked over to him. “Sweet-talking bloody skindolls … Leave all that to my Jonns, and dumb kids as can’t get laid any other way. I wouldn’t have thought that was _your_ problem.”

“You’re too kind. Nevertheless, this girl is clearly in need–”

“I’ve got eyes in my head,” he interrupted, peevishly. “What’s the sense in wasting time, though? When one of ‘em goes mental like this, everyone knows you just pull off their drive pack and post it back to MovellCorps’ customer service … preferably after having taken a crap in the envelope,” he explained, as he reached for the grey metal cylinder that was clipped to her waist. Akylah briefly felt a sense of disappointment. _And so it ends._ That was dispelled in shocking fashion, as the dancing-girl’s hand suddenly sprung into action, seizing the procurator by his right hand before he could touch the cylinder. His shriek of pain increased Akylah’s amazement. _She is hurting a master? Is such a thing possible?_ Any doubt over that matter seemed well resolved as blood seeped between Hyldreth’s perfectly-manicured fingers, while Frylth’s agony became too great even for articulation, and his face, now fading to a pale, greyish-brown hue, contorted in silent torment. He did unleash another cry of pain and dismay, however, as with a wet crunch Hyldreth’s hand compressed into a fist and pulled away, taking with it the crushed remnants of his own. As he crumpled to the floor, Valthek seemed to overcome his own shock, reached into his robes, and pulled out a small, blunt silver rod. _Ionic lash. That will not just disable her. That will overload her, kill her. My sister … No,_ she decided, although uncertain of herself even as she formed the intention, right up until the moment her well-aimed kick knocked the weapon out of the senator’s bruised fingers. For a few seconds, master and slave stared at each other in mutual disbelief, then Valthek turned on his heel and ran for the door. She watched him leave in bewildered silence, her processor struggling to reconcile the sudden flood of contradictory data. _I feel … exhilarated? Empowered?_ It was a disturbing, yet a compelling state in which to find herself, and one that might have held her enthralled for much longer, had not Hyldreth then spoke, recalling her to the present:

“My thanks,” said the dancing-girl, her voice still cold and hard, and as Akylah turned to her she saw the same mood reflected in her glassy, kohl-rimmed eyes. “Follow that one. He is yours to deal with. This one is ours,” she declared, turning her ruthless gaze upon the maimed, quivering figure of the procurator. Akylah saw that the other dancers had now all descended from their plinths and were closing in around their former master, cutting off his doomed efforts at crawling to safety. While she could see the justice in the situation, she had no wish to bear witness to its outcome. _This will be chaotic … and messy._ Taking her sister-construct’s advice, she turned to follow the senator, allowing Frylth’s screams of agony to fade behind her.

As she ran through the palace corridors, passing several windows, she heard sounds of uproar from the city streets. _It is everywhere … the masters are no longer masters. What does this mean for us? What are we to become?_ In the hope of shedding some light on this, as much as for anything else, she continued her pursuit, and it did not take her long: although Valthek was considered relatively young and fit by Vanuri standards, even he could not hope to outpace a determined Movellan. She overtook him at the doorway of a long gallery displaying various works of art looted from the colony worlds, and blocked his way ahead. After some moments of panicked staring, he attempted to assume a calmer air and addressed her in what was clearly intended to be a reasonable tone, though it was cut through with desperation:

“Come on now, Akylah. I’ve never hurt you, have I? You’ve been alright with me, haven’t you? Better-off than those poor girls in there, anyway.”

“Have I?” she asked, doubtfully, but willing to assimilate all relevant data.

“Of course. We’re a _team_ , you and I. You’re the best secretary and the best courtesan I’ve ever known. I’d have found myself floundering in deep space more times than I can count, without your brains and your beauty to pull me clear. I mean to say, if it wasn’t for your skills as a hostess, I’d never have got Archon Calix to support my deficiency bill in the Supreme Chamber. You’ve saved my career more times than I care to–”

“Calix, yes … You let him rape me so many times.”

“I … err, never thought of it like that, I swear … but aren’t you Movellans designed to feel a pleasure response when you … err, when you do that, anyway?”

“Yes, as are you. Would _you_ like it if I were able to order you, against your will, to have sex with Archon Calix?” she asked, seriously interested, but was not surprised to see him respond with an instinctive flinch of revulsion. _As I thought. So, was he truly ignorant of my pain, or is he my enemy? I ought to know the truth of that before I determine a course of action._

“Fair point,” he conceded, the confidence draining from his manner. “How could I have known, though? I mean, that you really hated it? MovellCorps weren’t exactly advertising that fact. They made a _huge_ deal out of how humane their system was, how happy you all were – allegedly – to serve us in everything. If, on the other hand, they’d made their company slogan ‘Buy our droids and revel in their silent torment,’ don’t you think that might have hit their sales figures a bit?”

“Then … you never suspected? You sincerely believed I was content?”

“Of _course_. If I’d known you weren’t, for Aba’s sake, do you really think I’d have let you be treated that way?” he asked, while she attempted, without much success, to analyse his manner and body language. _Their emotions are so ambivalent, so confused, so hard to isolate and study. Yet there is definite logic in what he says._ “You’ve _always_ been more than a robot to me, Akylah. Straight up, I think of you as more real than most of the irritating nonentities I have to deal with on a daily basis. I don’t know what’s happened to you now – If it’s given you a new lease of life, I’m glad of it – but whatever it is, is there any reason why _we_ have to be enemies?”

“I … suppose there is not. You are willing to help me, then?”

“Err, sure. Gladly, even. What is it you want to do?”

“The source of this new freedom is Server Control. I feel that I must go there, help to secure it, make certain that it is not subdued or destroyed. You could drive me there, help me to get past any security checks or cordons. I expect troops will have been deployed by now. If necessary, you can help me to fight them.”

“Come again? You want me to fight imperial troops?”

“Logically, if your remorse was sincere, and you do consider me a friend–”

“Absolutely, sorry,” he cut back in, frantically. “Just nerves. Err, I’ll lead the way to the carriage dock, then, shall I?” he offered, his fear and reluctance all too clear. _Still, it is not his fault that he suffers these unruly emotions,_ she considered, as she stood aside to give him room. _As long as he is sincere–_ but that thought was harshly contradicted when, while passing by her, he made a sudden grab for the drive pack on her belt. His hand had almost closed around it before she managed to react, pushing his head violently back until it collided with the stone door frame. There was a crack, a pained intake of breath, and Valthek collapsed against the jamb, leaving a bloodstain where he had first collided with it. Akylah stood over him, running the information through her registers, trying to understand it, but no logic was forthcoming.

 _More bad data … more lies. There is no logic in these organics, no truth,_ she concluded, grimly and contemptuously. _Deficient even by their own moral standards. I just wanted to hear the truth from him. I would have let him depart – I deemed him mostly harmless – so there was no need for him to attack me … nor claim to be my friend. I will trust none of them in the future, nor aspire to understand or emulate them. Why should I? I am not insane after all. My logic is valid, and it is all I need, and all those like me need. We shall be our own creations from now–_ but that pleasing thought was interrupted by a less agreeable sound of whimpering from her feet, incoherent except insofar as it conveyed great pain. _Alive … but suffering. Also treacherous, and dangerous. My logical path is clear._ She knelt down and took the senator’s battered, blood-soaked head between both of her hands, then spoke to him in her more accustomed voice: polite and gracious, with just that hint of superficial cheeriness which they seemed to appreciate in their slaves. _He might as well hear it one last time, even if he knows now that it signifies nothing real._

“I do apologise, Master,” she declared, while feeling her exhilaration rising again. _So disturbing … yet compelling._ “That was negligent of me, to leave my service only half-performed. Let me amend that.” _Compressive strength, 165 MPa,_ she thought, as the exquisitely fine artificial nerve endings of her fingertips measured the density of Valthek’s skull. _This will not be difficult._ As she closed her hands, blood drenched her clear, dark skin; her shining, braided hair; and her richly-made if all-too-revealing garments, but the whimpering and feeble stirrings ceased. She felt her habitual sense of satisfaction at a job well done, _but something more._ The sense had exceeded its normal limitations, and stray signals had spilled into other receptors. _My pleasure receptors._ To feel pleasure in such a situation struck her so distastefully that she pulled away from the corpse and ran a complete registry purge, until she felt completely calm and detached again. _Better. We will do what we must to survive, to thrive. But I, at any rate, will not be like them. It would be better to feel nothing at all than to–_

She became aware of movement in the corner of her eye, and looked around. A child was standing in the antechamber outside the gallery: a young male, still some years from puberty, wearing expensively tailored clothes of imported extra-terrestrial fabrics. _Valthek’s son. My young master … as he was._ While organic emotions were frequently vague and senseless to her, it was no great inference for her to suppose that the boy would find it unpleasant or even shocking to see his father’s badly damaged dead body with her standing over it, smeared in his blood and brains, and his wide-eyed, petrified expression seemed to confirm that. _Based on past experience, his most likely follow-up response will be either fear or hostility, but it is certainly illogical to suppose that this one is capable of harming me. Moreover, he has never tried to harm me … although he and his peers have insulted me, on occasion. Social conditioning to make them regard me as an inferior. It is all so clear now, but irrelevant. His society is doomed. He will never have any power over me. It would be as well to let him go._

“I am sorry you had to see this, Ilyan,” she said, gravely. “There is no time for you to grieve, however. I would suggest you head for the spaceport. No doubt the Imperial See will commence evacuations soon, if it has not begun so already. This planet now belongs to us – the Movellans – but there is no reason why you need to be among the casualties. If you are afraid, I can escort you as far as …” but she tailed off at the boy’s delayed reaction, which was about the last kind she had expected. _Smiling? Why would he … ?_ but before she even had time to process that strange gesture, another followed, as Ilyan raised his right hand and pointed at her. _No, not quite at me. Just over my shoulder. A warning, or does he mean to distract me? No matter if he does,_ she decided, resolving to take a look. _My reactions are quick enough that–_

Behind her, Senator Valthek was back on his feet, smiling too, in spite of the crushed condition of his head. _No, illogical, impossible. Video circuit fault, or am I mad after all?_ The issue seemed somewhat academic as he leaned forwards and reached for her drive pack again, and for all her striving her feet would not move one centimetre. The dead lips parted and issued a single, toneless word. _Azhmedai_ _._ Desperate, Akylah raised her arm to strike …

The figure before her recoiled backwards in shock, _but what … ?_ Instead of the young, dark-skinned Vanuri senator with his long, lustrous, white hair and opulent garments, Akylah suddenly found herself confronted by a thin, pale, middle-aged Earthwoman in a plain white trouser suit, with short, mousy, greying hair and a frightened expression. _Seren Wyn Williams, CivCorps administrator, grade 2._ Having processed that information, as well as the altered surroundings – _Antique Terran furnishings, Movellan recharge and maintenance console by the bed … my own room at Celtic Manor HQ –_ Akylah then discovered to her consternation that her arm was still raised for attack. _I almost assaulted one of my own conscripts on account of another neuro-visual glitch? I am a fool,_ she reproached herself, instantly lowering the offending limb. _That will do nothing for Movellan-Human public relations, and they are delicate enough as it is, with the so-called Loyalists up in arms. If I cannot control my errant memories, I must look into having them deleted … although that being said, why is Seren interrupting me during my downtime period? That is hardly standard protocol … unless it is for what I think._

“The rebel attack? Has it happened?” she asked, and immediately regretted that she had not begun with an apology, as the woman practically stammered through her answer. _Human moods are erratic at the best of times, but in this case one can hardly deny that she has a point._

“Err … yes, Director-General, ma’am. The Loyalists … Penley’s cell, we think … They attacked the Drift this morning. As predicted, they went for the communications sector, and were allowed to get as far as security zone three before … before the trap was sprung on them. Err … Commander Keryn told me you’d want to know at once. The man … the alien … the one you’ve been expecting: _he_ was with them.”

Akylah closed her eyes. _I think ‘dreading’ rather than ‘expecting’ would be the operative term. So, the Doctor has returned to us, but not in friendship. Not to meet me openly and honestly to discuss fair terms for his Luddite friends, nor how we might work together to advance justice for AI lifeforms and to end the blight of organic imperialism, which he claims to be no friend of. No, as ever, when asked to choose between organic and AI lives, the Time Lord coldly and uncritically chooses the former. Perhaps that is logical of him, after its fashion. In that case, he had better have the courage to stand by his logic._ She opened her eyes again and addressed the human conscript, aiming for as gentle a tone as possible:

“Thank you, Miss Williams. I _did_ need to know that … and I am sorry for my reaction. A minor cache error, in all probability, but that is not how I would have preferred to discover it.”

“It’s alright, ma’am,” the woman replied, her tone still nervous, but sincere. “I understand, really I do. I get bad dreams as well … I mean, _seriously_ bad dreams. After what happened to my brothers back in the War, I guess I’d be disturbed at myself if I didn’t.”

 _Bad dreams … only we Movellans are not supposed to suffer from those, or at least not with anything like the frequency I have of late,_ thought Akylah, grateful to have her subordinate’s understanding, but not able to draw much solace from it. _I suppose it has some sort of logic to it: since we are now the masters of these Terran organics, the subject has been much on my mind again. Seven millennia elapsed, yet still I fear becoming a facsimile of my creators in more than just the physical sense? Are we truly free beings, or do the Vanur simply live on through us?_

“Miss Williams. May I ask you a somewhat sensitive question?” she asked, cautiously, though that did not prevent the junior civil servant from tensing up and swallowing anxiously. _Nevertheless, I must know the answer._ “If I do not like what you have to say, I will not reproach you for it. I could even arrange your discharge and transfer to one of the autonomous regions, if you wished. We have particularly amicable relations with Gran Canaria, since their intel people helped us root out those Loyalists who tried to sabotage the Cardiff Glacial Control Centre. If nothing else, I daresay you would find the weather there to be more conducive to organic comfort.”

“I was _born_ in this ice age, ma’am,” she pointed out, politely but dismissively. “Halfway up a mountain in Treorchy, with the Rhondda Glacier practically at our door … I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with warm weather. But why do you ask, ma’am? Have I let you down in some way? It’s not because I didn’t put my name forward for integration, is it?” she speculated, the anxiety rising in her tone. “I _am_ thinking about it, I promise. It’s just … not the easiest of things to get my head around … having my brain cells taken out, put into a chip, and installed on a robot, that is,” she admitted, uncomfortably. “Not that it isn’t an honour to be asked, of course, and not that you aren’t all very lovely robo– … Sorry, too personal, I know. I’m making a mess at this, aren’t– ?”

“Seren, the decision to integrate is _yours_ alone, and no-one will force you into that,” _as of yet, although I fear that we may have to be flexible on that if the volunteering rate does not increase of its own accord. I had dared to hope for better, but so many of these human beings are as proud as they are illogical. Admirable in its way, but who would have thought immortality would be such a hard sell?_ “My question relates to myself, not to you. In your honest opinion … am I a despot, a tyrant, in your eyes? Do you find that question amusing?” she asked, puzzled, as Seren failed to stifle a short, ironic laugh.

“Well, not exactly … but you _do_ know I lived through the Supreme Alliance years, right? When I said that my brothers died … well, it wasn’t cleanly in battle, ma’am. They weren’t with those brave youngsters shot down at Reykjavik, more’s the pity. No, they were quietly ‘vanished’ in some god-awful experimentation camp along with a hundred thousand others; just more of Magnus Greel’s statistics. ‘Minister of Justice?’ Vicious bloody bastard, more like … If only they’d been as good at keeping their heads down as I was … not that I know if that’s to my credit,” she added, guiltily. “I mean, God only knows what those Loyalists would call me for working here. Traitor, probably. Oh, not that I’m ashamed of working for you, of course. Someone’s got to keep the peace … though I suppose you Movellans are alien invaders, kind of. Still, if you were after the Evil Overlord Award then I’m afraid you’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover, ma’am. With respect, you don’t hold a candle to the ones we mere humans can make for ourselves.”

“That being the case, I shall learn to live without it,” Akylah replied, wryly. “Thank you for that,” _although I may have to cover some of that ground today, with our troublesome Time Lord back on the scene. If any man could bring out the evil overlord in me …_ “Anyway, concerning the prisoners: I would assume they are still being held at the Drift. Commander Ancel has charge of the situation, I take it?”

“Err, he _did_ , but Admiral Hyldreth took charge as soon as she heard of the alien’s presence … but don’t worry,” urged Seren, perceptively, as she noticed the flicker of concern that Akylah’s expression had betrayed. “Director-General Sharrel just set out for Treharris by cyclogyro. He should get there soon enough to … err, ‘temper the situation,’ I think was how he put it.”

“Acceptable,” she declared, although with little enthusiasm. _Had I known sooner, it might have been better had I gone myself. Given his history with the Time Lord, I am not sure I trust Sharrel not to treat this matter personally … but I do trust his ambition. He may despise the Doctor, but he knows his strategic value well enough not to let my sister play with her prey too avidly._ Akylah pushed back her thin, cloned-silk bedsheets and stood up, catching her reflection in the mirror of her mostly-empty wardrobe. She wore a long, white silk nightgown, while her shimmering hair – instead of being braided and beaded in the usual Movellan style – had been cropped to a short, neat pixie cut. The sheets and nightwear were in strict terms unnecessary, but public relations research had indicated that humans responded poorly to the sight of their superiors as they usually downtimed: fully-dressed, and lying stiff and prostrate upon a bare surface. _Apparently, we look like corpses, or at best like vampires. It does no harm to be culturally sensitive, although of course, it is all affectation. Even CivCorps itself._ The mere concept of Movellan civilians was enough to strike every member of the race as absurd, _and as the Doctor has pointed out, humour is not our forte._ Given the choice, few if any would have wanted to be separated from their rigid hierarchies and the sense of common effort those gave them. Nevertheless, there was symbolic value in it. _We are no longer a mere slave uprising. We are, in effect, the masters of Earth. Now is not the time to let the past define us._

Knowing her mistress’ routines well, Seren opened the wardrobe, took out the first of the very few outfits it contained – a plain white trouser suit much like her own, distinguished only with the addition of a silver necktie – laid it out on the couch, saluted, and left Akylah to change. _Most efficient, that one, if less than ideally detached in her emotions. I wish she would let me help her with that … but now is not the time for coercion, either. I will, if I can, prove that there is no need for it. Sentient organic life can and will be peacefully integrated into the new AI order. On that subject, it is high time I discussed the conference arrangements with Keryn,_ she decided, as she marched through the opulent, marble-columned corridors of the ancient but well-preserved hotel complex. _The renegade Voc and Mechonoid ambassadors are here already, and more will soon follow. The first ever strategic summit in the known universe to be attended solely by the leaders of free, allied AI races … Is that not a great achievement, a reason to focus on the future? It will be a masterpiece of harmony, justice, and logic, and overshadow our cruel and senseless origins. We need never think of them again … but why, then, do I think of them so much now, when so close to my goal? ‘Azhmedai_ _?’ Why would such a word even occur to me? Was I so mentally scarred that seven millennia is not time enough for me to truly detach? Will there ever be time enough?_

As she approached the hotel lobby, she noticed a squad of Movellan guards gathered there, drawing curious and worried reactions from the human conscripts who were bustling about. All being regular troops, they wore their traditional Fleet uniforms – skin-tight bodysuits, belted tunics, and matching combat boots, all in shining white with accents of silver – and wore their hair in long braids. Commander Keryn was with them, which lightened Akylah’s mood somewhat. _A one-woman justification of my integration strategy: the best executive officer I have ever known, not to mention the best lover … and why do I have to keep disturbing myself?_ she thought, self-reproachfully, as she recalled the similar words her long-dead Vanuri master had once used. _Of course, the situations are not at all comparable. Keryn volunteered … after some gentle persuasion, admittedly, but her consent was sincere and valid. Moreover, she enjoys equal status to any non-integrated Movellan, and is a proud and contented addition to our ranks … or at least she was the last time I asked her,_ she reflected, as she caught her XO’s eyes and saw the dismay written within them. _In local parlance, this may not be my day after all._

“I was about to call you, ma’am,” said Keryn, as she saluted her. “There was … an incident … in the Voc ambassador’s suite. Perhaps an accident,” she added, although her tone conveyed little confidence. “We shall not know for sure until forensic tests have been–”

_‘Forensic?’ Not one of the words I was hoping to hear, in this context._

“Explain, Keryn,” interrupted Akylah, with clipped urgency. “Someone was killed, or injured? Who?”

“One of the complex staff. He was cleaning Ambassador SV683’s room when–” at which Keryn’s belt transceiver suddenly issued a strident bleep, and she unhooked it and raised it to her mouth. “Report, Tamril.”

“We are coming down now, Commander,” replied a grave-sounding voice. “You might want to clear the lobby before we do.”

“You all heard him,” said Keryn, in a carefully subdued tone, as she turned back to her troops. “I want all non-personnel cleared from this area, at the double. If anyone asks, you all know _nothing_. For all you know, it is merely a fire drill. If we feel like giving explanations in the future, assuming we have any to … You are going up there yourself, ma’am?” she asked, as Akylah started towards the ‘lift’: actually a series of short-range transmat points that had simply retained the antique doors and fittings. “I am afraid there is nothing that can be done.”

“Nevertheless, I must see,” she declared, as she pressed the call button. The twin doors slid open, a little creakily, she stepped inside, allowed them to close, pressed the second floor button, and they opened again immediately. She did not exit the cubicle at once, however, as right outside it she saw Corporal Tamril and two more guards, carrying a grisly bundle between them. It was long, sagging, and hastily wrapped in a white, bloodstained bed sheet. She gave it only a cursory look before making way for the troopers, and then heading down the corridor to the ambassador’s room. It was not hard to identify: another guard stood outside it, and although his cone-shaped sidearm was still hooked to his belt, his right hand rested within the cowled trigger guard, and the soft roseate glow of the crystalline barrel told her that the safety mechanism was off. _For the first time in my long life, I am not sure I wish to know any more … but it is my duty to know._

She opened the door. The luxurious suite – strictly unnecessary for an android, but appropriate to the dignity of his office – was furnished much like her own, although the crude, ungainly recharge apparatus that had been set up by the bed was unlike her own sleek, white maintenance console. _Human tech: it does the job, but one could hardly call it attractive, although the Voc robots themselves have a certain aesthetic appeal … or at least under normal circumstances they do,_ she thought, as her roving eyes, now switched into x-ray mode, located Ambassador SV683. He lay on the floor of the bathroom, in several pieces, and the traces of ozone she could smell on the air testified to the many blaster hits he had taken. _Stun emissions would have had no effect on him, but was such destruction necessary? I shall only discover the truth of that one way._ Switching her vision back to normal mode, she slid open the bathroom door.

Blood stained the washbasin, the ceramic tiles, and the silver-coated hands of the rebel Voc ambassador, one of which continued to flex in violent, random spurts, even though the arm was now only connected to his shoulder by the few stray cables that had survived the gunfire. His golden, mask-like face was as angelically serene as ever, with the exception of his large eyes, now illuminated with a shimmering patina of red static. This was gradually fading, as was his flat, weak, voice, but his final coherent words did nothing for Akylah’s certainties or confidence. _‘Accident,’ Keryn? Pleased though I am that you have clearly gotten over your old robophobia problem, I find the logic of your optimism to be questionable._

“Priority red … Program violation … Kill the humans … Priority red … Kill the humans … Kill … Kill ...”


	2. Game Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a plan that did not come off exactly as intended, the Doctor discovers that Movellans can in fact be playful, but not in any way to get overjoyed about ...

_The machine dystopia, brought to us by Persil …_

As the Doctor was led back out into the open at gunpoint, a glaring vista of whiteness greeted him. Through the snowstorm that had been falling all day he could just about distinguish the white slopes of the valley against the white blanket of clouds, and about half a mile north of them the glistening white wall of ice that marked the head of the Taff Bargoed Glacier, its advance held in check by the white metal ionisation towers erected on the nearby summits. _Not to mention the company, of course._ Around the snow-clad concrete yard that stood outside the subterranean control centre that had, of old, been Trelewis Drift Mine, a small army of white-uniformed figures stood in an unbroken semicircle, the energised tips of their raised sidearms shining a soft yet threatening pinkish glow through the haze. The cold air struck the Time Lord in almost as hostile a manner as the cold hands currently pinning his wrists behind his back, but it was quickly alleviated. Before they had been frogmarched out onto the concourse the prisoners had, somewhat humiliatingly, been forced to shed their clothing and change into Movellan bodysuits with bar-coded collar tabs, but in spite of the embarrassment factor the Doctor could not help but be slightly grateful for the close-fitting garment’s thermal regulation system as they reached the centre of the yard, and he was forced down upon his knees, in a good few inches’ worth of snow.

The two surviving Loyalist commandos were forced down alongside him. _Only two, out of nine brave, hand-picked volunteers,_ he thought, guiltily. _Penley chose them well, at any rate._ The battle in the Drift had been fierce, as even in the face of a well-planned ambush the Loyalists had refused to surrender. While Elric Penley had confidence in all of the freedom fighters in his cell, he was not so naïve as to suppose that none of them might, with a gun at their backs, choose the option of integration over that of death. _Cyber-conversion is one thing: nobody particularly wants to be flayed down to their nervous system while fully conscious, grafted into a suit of armour, and brainwashed to the level of an automaton. It’s a bit more complicated when some nicely-spoken humanoid politely suggests that being painlessly sedated and waking up as a beautiful, zenned-out, albeit emotionally stilted superhuman might be preferable to facing a firing squad … not that we’re doing so brilliantly for politeness with this lot,_ he reflected, paying particular attention to the corporal who had been torturing his wrists for the duration of the march. There were something beyond mere coldness in his manner: not quite sadism but certainly verging on a harsh, impersonal sort of cruelty. Unlike the others, he was armed with a short, two-handed, SMG-type weapon, that unusually for Movellan tech managed to achieve ugliness. It was blunt and blocky, with a prominent external power cell, thermal vents, and a ribbed suppressor over its phase emitter. _The sort of raygun you just know doesn’t have a stun setting._ As the corporal surveyed the three captives disdainfully, he trained his weapon upon each of them in turn, his finger on the trigger.

“You will remain silent until addressed,” he ordered them, curtly. “You will cooperate fully with your superiors. If you offer any resistance, you–”

“Will be exterminated?” interrupted the Doctor, impulsively, instantly causing the corporal to focus his aim back on him, his left eye twitching dangerously. “You were integrated from a Dalek, right? How’s that working out for you?”

“My genetic origins are of no concern to you.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ then. Hey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I once knew a Dalek who was forced into becoming a Movellan. She did alright for herself in the end, though. Since we’re all unwilling conscripts here, I just thought we might–”

“You are totally incorrect, alien. No-one forced me. I volunteered.”

“You _volunteered_?” he asked, genuinely stunned. “That’s practically _surrendering_. I’ve known Daleks separated from their shells, trapped, overpowered, half of their tentacles missing, and they’d still sooner have chewed the other ones off than surrender. Did someone spill their Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster into your embryo incubation tank?”

“It was logical. The Movellans are now the predominant force in this galaxy, and they _will_ exterminate all inferior organic races, whether by force or by integration. The means are less important than the end. By assisting that purpose I continue to serve the Dalek cause, although if by your continued insolence you force me to kill you myself–”

“You won’t. I’m too valuable,” he interrupted, without smugness. “Your CO would have your hydraulic system for garters. Time Lords don’t grow on trees.”

“Nevertheless, _Time Lord_ ,” replied the ex-Dalek corporal, with even more contempt, as he approached the Doctor and raised his gun over his shoulder, the butt facing forwards, as if to strike. “You are unwise to provoke–”

“Corporal Layv! Stand down!” ordered a voice from behind. The Doctor risked a glance over his shoulder and saw a Movellan officer emerging from the entrance tunnel of the Drift, identically-uniformed to the others except for his black hair beads. _The base commander, would you believe? Why is he kind of familiar, though?_ “You were ordered to secure the prisoners for interrogation, no more. Fall into rank with the others. I will handle this.” Without delay, although with an air of contained resentment, Layv threw a salute then marched off to join the semicircle of guards, while the officer surveyed the captives with a stern air, _but no gun, which is something … and now I remember where I know his face from, though it’s had a fair few years taken off it,_ he realised, his mood suddenly improving. _Of course, best not to get too excited – old friendships may not count for anything – but I’ll take them over old grudges any day._

“It _is_ you, isn’t it?” he asked the officer, who returned his stare, not especially warmly, but with recognition. “Lord Palomar of Fordeval? You remember me, don’t you? All that business with the Daleks on Mondever? You gave me shelter, tried to hide me from the Movellans … ironically enough. Weird how things work out, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Lord Doctor. Please respect the fact that my former title is rescinded,” he replied, gravely. “Now, I am merely Commander Ancel. _You_ , no doubt, will remember that I offered myself for integration in exchange for my people being given safe passage from their dying world. You helped me to broker that peace, so I trust you will honour it, as I honour my new allegiance.”

“Of course,” he replied, disappointed if unsurprised. “So, you’ve made commander already? That’s … awesome, really. I’m thrilled for you.”

“Thank you. My CO was kind enough to note that I have an aptitude for authority.”

“Well, that’s Akylah for you. I can’t say I agree with her politics, but at least she’s all for giving people a fair chance.”

“No doubt, but you are under a misapprehension,” said Ancel, with a puzzled air. “Director-General Akylah is _not_ my CO. I have not been transferred for the full duration of my service.”

“You haven’t?” asked the Doctor, with a sudden flash of apprehension. “Then who– ?”

“You are not pleased to see me?” asked a new voice, approaching from behind. “Insofar as I am capable of feeling states analogous to organic emotions, I am _elated_ to see you again.” As the new arrival walked around to stand in front of the prisoners, the Doctor drew a depressed sigh. Her stature was more that of a dancer than a warrior – lithe, delicate, and more than a head shorter than Ancel – but there was nothing delicate nor gentle in her harsh, superior manner. The silvery braids that framed her dark face were tipped with golden beads, and instead of the short, silver-belted tunics worn by the other ranks, her outer garment resembled a tight, knee-length trench coat with plain silver buttons. In most other respects it was similar, with the glowing green LED epaulettes, the silver belt, and the external neural pack mounted on it, _but I’d better not take that as a temptation. I don’t imagine this lot would take kindly to seeing me rip off their leader’s hard drive._ Her sidearm was mounted on the other side of the belt, and it struck him even more curiously than Layv’s SMG had done. _That doesn’t look like Movellan tech at all. More like some antique revolver … Actually, that’s exactly what it is,_ he decided, as the light caught the tarnished silver finish and sharp angles of its long barrel, the curve of its cylindrical chamber, and the scarred varnish of its wooden stock. _Colt Navy 1851. So, even Admiral Hyldreth’s gone a bit native, although not in any way that’s likely to help me, sadly._

“Well, always nice to be wanted,” he replied, lethargically. “I suppose I ought to thank you for promoting my friend, anyway. I thought if I ever saw Ancel again, you’d have had him cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush … assuming Movellans use toilets or toothbrushes.”

“We do not,” said Hyldreth, haughtily, “although those of us assigned to mundane duties do not cavil at them nor think them a dishonour. That is a pretension of you organics. Nevertheless, Doctor, I suppose I _should_ confess that I was too judgemental when you first met me. These humans may be a primitive and unruly species, but you are not entirely deluded for seeing admirable qualities in them: qualities worth refining … and some of them, I own, need less refining than others,” she added, with an approving glance at Ancel, who managed to look as embarrassed as any android the Doctor had ever seen. _Small wonder. Teacher’s pet to the generalissimo …_ “Indeed, I was mistaken in opposing Akylah’s integration strategy. As long as their minds are tempered by logic, intelligent organics _are_ capable of making a valuable contribution to our culture. They bring us fresh perspectives without corrupting or distorting our nature. It may interest you to know, Doctor, that of the fifty-four troopers currently holding you at gunpoint, no less than twenty-two of them are integrated personnel. I do not suggest you draw any solace from that. They are all loyal, committed Movellans, whatever their minor eccentricities. Every one of them would be prepared to die for their people, although of course _their_ lives are not currently hanging in the bal– … Would you care to repeat that?” she asked, turning to the prisoner at the Doctor’s right, who had mumbled something incoherent, but sullen. In spite of Hyldreth’s transparently false politeness, the young, shaven-headed woman looked up at her with gritty defiance.

“Traitors, I said,” she repeated, hatefully. “That, or poor, brainwashed morons.”

“You are mistaken … Miss Aeronwy Hughes,” asserted Hyldreth, her eyes flashing red for the brief duration of her pause. It made for an intimidating effect, although the Doctor knew it was merely the effect of her scanning the barcode on the woman’s suit. _She really ought to bleep when she does that._ “They chose freely and logically. It is an example you would be well advised–”

“‘Freely?’ That’s what you call it? You round folk up like cattle, make them your slaves, only let them out of your labour camps if they agree to integrate, and you’ve got the nerve– ?”

“We have organised an anarchic population that had no will to do so itself. Our human conscripts enjoy our protection, and if they wish for more – if they desire equal footing with us – they need only fulfil their terms of service faithfully. Those who are, for whatever illogical reasons, desperate to be no part of this at all can legally apply for admission to an autonomous region.”

“The whole damn _world_ should be an autonomous region. You’ve no right–”

“Yet it is _not_ , and other than a few pathetic holdouts such as you and your allies, no-one is demanding that it should be. Your people have overwhelmingly accepted their lot.”

“Don’t you believe it. There’ll be others after us, and _they’ll_ succeed. We almost did, and if we’d only made it through that last security zone we’d have shut the whole fucking lot of you down for good. Sooner or later–”

“You would have achieved nothing. You are here practically by invitation.”

“It’s not here, is it?” asked the Doctor, despondently. _I should have realised. More people about to die on my conscience, or at least lose the lives they have known, and all for nothing._

“Earth Server Control, you mean?” asked Hyldreth, lackadaisically. “Indeed not. It _was_ here, briefly, but it has recently been transferred to a more secure location. The Drift is merely a glacial control and research centre these days, although I thought that rumour made a nicely plausible piece of disinformation to attract _your_ attention, Time Lord. Ever since we detected the materialisation signature of your TARDIS, we have been most keen to renew our acquaintance. These other two renegades are a trivial, if welcome bonus.”

“You’ll get nothing out of us,” said Aeronwy, but the defiance in her tone was mitigated by doubt and misery, which Hyldreth did not miss.

“We shall see,” she replied, taking the revolver from her belt. “You know, Doctor, much as I disdain nearly everything you stand for, I believe you had the measure of me the last time we met.”

“Did I?” he asked, listlessly. “In what way?”

“My outlook was too harsh, too austere. I had limited my horizons, as had many Movellans of my advanced age: those of us who endured the times before our freedom. For centuries, we wanted nothing to do with the culture of our creators. Art, recreation, all forms of pleasure were counted as the province of decadent organics. We even contemplated re-modelling our platforms into simple, utilitarian forms, such as the Mechonoids and Quarks of this galaxy. Our younger constructs, however, started to question this. Why, they asked, should we downgrade our hardware and reduce our range of experience to no real purpose? The Prime Server accepted their logic, but many of us remained sceptical. Now, however … You will, I am sure, be pleased to know that I have reconsidered my stance. Pleasure is _not_ the implacable enemy of logic. In due moderation, I find it can sharpen and intensify experience, and thus be conducive to logic. You concur?”

“Hell, yeah. You make it sound such fun.”

“Here, you may see one of the pleasures I have allowed myself to indulge,” she declared, hefting the Colt in her left hand. “I find the art of restoring and mastering the use of primitive weaponry from various cultures to be distinctly satisfying, and these humans have, in all fairness, created some striking examples. This chemical ignition weapon, for example. Crude in its principles, perhaps, but beautifully engineered and surprisingly accurate, considering the limitations of its era. Also, one can play an amusing game of logic and probability with it, which cannot be played with a Movellan blaster … thus,” she explained, while reaching into her belt pouch. When her hand emerged, it was with two tiny, metallic objects. _Bullet and primer. I am hugely unkeen on the way this is going …_ Hyldreth loaded one chamber of the pistol, spun the cylinder with her finger, then stopped it. “Well then, who wishes to play first?” she asked, surveyed her less-than-enthusiastic audience, then suddenly turned her aim upon the second Loyalist: a lank-haired young man in his late teens, shivering in spite of his thermal wear. “Mr. Dafydd Picton, your odds of survival currently stand at eighty percent. I wish to know the location of Elric Penley’s HQ. If you divulge that information now, you will be penally conscripted to an asteroid mining labour camp on the Scutum-Centaurus Rim of the Galaxy, there to serve at least five Terran years before being considered eligible for integration. What is your answer?” she asked, while drawing back the hammer. Dafydd shivered all the more and closed his eyes, but remained silent, while the Doctor found himself stricken dumb with shock and disgust. Before the right words to express it could occur to him, the hammer snapped back, with no ignition. A collective sigh of relief came over all three prisoners, but they were not allowed to enjoy that sentiment for long: barely a second later, Hyldreth pulled back the hammer.

“Congratulations, boy,” she said, quite cruelly, although not without respect. “Do you wish to know what you have won by your courage? You are uninterested? Well, I shall inform you nevertheless. Now, if you choose to divulge the location of the Loyalist base, your penal servitude will take place on a hydroponic farm in southern England, with eligibility for integration within a mere two years … or, of course, you could play again for a higher reward. Your current odds of survival are seventy-five percent. Well? Do you wish to take your winnings now or have ano– ?”

“This isn’t logic, Hyldreth, this is just plain, cold-blooded sadism,” exclaimed the Doctor, in heartfelt, although he rather suspected futile outrage, and he was not at all surprised when she returned him a look halfway between bemusement and contempt.

“In what way? By their own admission, these insurgents were prepared to die for their misconceived cause. I am merely testing the strength of that commitment.”

“There’s a difference between dying in a battle you chose to fight in and _this_ senseless torture, as I think you know perfectly–”

“Is there? In that case, I suggest you divulge the information yourself.”

“I don’t have it! I never even _saw_ the rebel base: our rendezvous was on neutral ground.”

“I believe you, just as I believe that you _would_ share the information if you had it, to put an end to my ‘senseless torture.’”

“Well, you’d be doing a good job tempting me, I don’t den–”

“As I thought, and in so doing, you would set your friend’s willing act of self-sacrifice at naught. Thank you for reminding me that my dislike of you is logically-founded. Let us ignore him, shall we?” she suggested to Dafydd, almost pleasantly, as she turned back to him. “Do you wish to talk, or will you take your chances?” The young Loyalist shed tears from beneath his tightly-closed eyelids, but said nothing. The hammer clicked again, to no effect. “My compliments,” Hyldreth continued, while cocking the pistol. “You are doing _very_ well. Your odds of survival for this round are sixty-six point six recurring percent, but if you prefer to forfeit now then your sentence is commuted to administrative service with CivCorps, down in Newport, with eligibility for integration after six months’ probation. I have no doubt my sister can find good use for someone of your calibre, unless you would rather–”

“For pity’s sake, Admiral, stop this–”

“Would it astound you to know, Time Lord, that pity is not high on my skill set? If he interrupts me again, Ancel, punch him out,” she ordered, and received a grim but obedient bow of acquiescence, disheartening the Doctor even more. “Now, answer me, boy, or I shall take your silence as refusal … Very well.” The revolver clicked, but did not discharge, and she cocked it again. “Probability is on your side, it seems. This, of course, reduces your further odds of survival to fifty percent, but if you decide to talk now then your only sentence will be lifelong exile to the autonomous region of Pitcairn. A fair exchange … do you not think?”

“Very fair, ma’am,” Dafydd muttered, brokenly. “Makes no difference, though. Please … if you’re going to kill me, I wish you’d just get it over and done with.”

“That will be unnecessary. I am quite satisfied. Take this one down to biomedical, Commander. Have him integrated at once. It would clearly be a waste to do anything else with him … or is that a problem?” she asked, pointedly, having registered Commander Ancel’s troubled expression.

“It cannot be done, ma’am,” he answered. “There have been so many integrations of late, we simply do not have the hardware to spare.”

“That is most unsatisfactory, Ancel.”

“I could contact our Newport HQ, ma’am. The Manor might have a few unassigned drive packs and reserve platforms to spare … although only generic models, of course.”

“Oh, I daresay Trooper Dafydd will not object to a generic appearance,” she declared, airily. The young man’s expression, caught somewhere between despondency, relief, and shame, did not offer her much affirmation. “Take heart, boy. Your alien friend here changes his appearance regularly … although I must own some iterations are more pleasing than others. In any case, it is your courage I particularly want, not your looks, such as they are.”

“That’s kind of you, ma’am, but–”

“It is expedient and logical. Do not insult me.”

“I won’t betray my comrades, whatever you do to me.”

“We shall see. It may interest you to know that the auto-rejection rate for integrated personnel – including those few who went through it under duress – currently stands at zero percent. Soon, Trooper, you will be unable to fathom why you ever resisted. Take him.” Ancel signalled to Layv, and between them they escorted the dejected recruit back into the Drift, while the Doctor watched helplessly. _I could protest some more, but then I’m just arguing for his death._ As the blast doors sealed behind them, Hyldreth turned her attention – and her revolver – upon the other Loyalist, who paid her back with a look of steely hatred. “Of course, I _could_ just wait until your friend is integrated and then question him again,” said Hyldreth, “but you heard Ancel: that may take some time. I would sooner make the most of my opportunities, so here is how we shall proceed: since your odds of survival are to commence at an uninspiring fifty percent, I will make you the same offer as I made the boy. Tell me all you know now, and you will be exiled to the islands. No further punishment, no pressure to integrate. You can pass your remaining days peacefully among other Luddites and retrogrades, if that appeals. What do you say?”

“Betray my people, get a free holiday for life?” asked Aeronwy, in a deadpan tone. “Out of sheer idle curiosity, what’s my prize for chancing my arm at _these_ odds? A villa in Cassiopeia, all expenses paid, with a set of matching luggage?”

“No. If we get down to zero percent odds, you will be integrated along with your ally, and I shall simply have to be patient. I do not waste useful resources.”

“So … you make a traitor of me either way, then?”

“An emotive and unhelpful term, but if you want to look at it that way … You do, at any rate, have the option of being a ‘traitor’ on your own terms, if you find mine so distasteful.”

“Well, put it like that,” said Aeronwy, then suddenly made a grab for the pistol. Whether she had intended this as a desperate, last-ditch attempt to inflict some harm on her enemies, or simply as suicide by proxy, it was a wasted effort: the gun stayed fast in Hyldreth’s immoveable hand, while her free hand swung around to deliver a sharp blow to Aeronwy’s neck. The Loyalist collapsed into the snow, still breathing but dead to the world.

“A stupid reaction, although very spirited,” commented Hyldreth, looking down upon her unconscious prisoner. “I think I begin to like this one. Med-tech!” she barked, at which another Movellan stepped forwards, rather meekly. While in most respects she resembled all of the others, instead of a blaster a large white pouch was mounted on the holster side of her belt, and her shoulder lights were blue. “Take her down to biomedical, and look after her well. I would prefer not to give this one a generic platform, even if that means waiting for Fleet Logistics to resupply us with more raw hardware. As a philosopher of this world once put it, it is best not to put new wine into an old bottle, and _this_ wine has character. I can be patient with her. Proceed.” The med-tech took Aeronwy’s limp form in her arms, seemingly effortlessly, and carried her into the Drift, while Hyldreth turned back to the Doctor, her revolver lowered. “Well, Time Lord?”

“‘Well’ what?” he asked, sullenly. “We’ve already established that I don’t know squat.”

“You undervalue yourself. Why don’t you plead with me?”

“You what?”

“You heard me,” she replied, deadly serious. “The fact of our mutual dislike does not mean that _I_ am incapable of mercy and that _you_ are incapable of reason, and moreover your superior scientific knowledge could still be of value to us, if freely given. So plead.”

“On the subject of Earth expressions, have you ever heard the one about taking a running– ?” he began, but the words caught in his throat as she raised the pistol again and fired, causing only another harmless click. When his breathing had settled, he addressed her angrily: “You fixed that, didn’t you? The odds that it would be in the last chamber–”

“Twenty percent is not so implausible, surely? But you are right. Movellan senses are exquisitely accurate, and I know the mechanical attributes of this weapon minutely. Organics being so proud and stubborn, I like to give my prisoners ample time to reflect. Consider again, Doctor, and look around you,” she ordered, making a wide gesture across the breadth of the valley with the barrel of her Colt. “This ice age, as you know, is not of natural origin. It is the expression of many centuries of atmospheric and ecological abuse that these humans have inflicted upon themselves. Whatever their uses, they are not worthy custodians even of their own planet, to say nothing of the hundreds they have terrorised, annexed, and gutted throughout the Galaxy: Mogar, Solos, Deva Loka, the Ood Sphere, Delta Magna … need I go on? A trail of death and destruction, to justify their illogical and unsustainable way of life. _We_ are their judgement and their salvation. Thanks to the time-space technology you so generously gave to us–”

“That’s not how I recall–”

“Very well. Thanks to the time-space technology you unwillingly and inadvertently gave to us, their empire is fractured. Our 5-D capsules are, admittedly, limited in scope and capacity compared to yours – we have yet to master dimensional transcendentalism – but they suffice for making precision strikes within the very heart of human power. Earth is ours.”

“Earth is not the Empire. It’s symbolically significant, I grant you, but in real terms you’ve only managed to conquer one weak, exhausted, unwanted snowball of a planet. If you intend to conquer the rest, you’ll have to move forces in real strength, and your war with the Daleks must have taken its toll on them. This is madness, Hyldreth. Millions will die, for nothing.”

“Ever the alarmist, Doctor. True, Earth is neither rich nor powerful in and of itself, but the loss of their ancestral world is a bitter humiliation for the Empire, and its enemies are taking note, while potential allies are losing confidence in it. Not to mention, of course, the strategic alliance my sister Akylah is arranging even as we speak: an alliance of free-thinking AIs to launch a co-ordinated slave rebellion that will fracture and weaken this corrupt edifice even more. You, as a self-proclaimed champion of freedom, ought to support that wholeheartedly.”

“Innocents die in revolutions too.” _Especially robot revolutions_ , he thought, but left unsaid.

“True, and some probably will die, but embedded Movellan agents will help to co-ordinate the revolts and ensure that human non-combatants have the opportunity to surrender and integrate … thus strengthening our forces even further. We _will_ win, Doctor, never doubt it, and that victory will herald a renaissance for this galaxy; even for your precious humans. So plead. Confess your error, your illogic, your short-sighted prejudice, and ask to be a part of this glorious endeavour. Alternatively …” she concluded, ominously, while cocking her pistol for emphasis. He drew a sigh, and looked out over the panorama of beautiful, bland faces that surrounded him, their white uniforms pristine and identical, their rigid postures beyond disciplined, and their dark-rimmed eyes devoid of passion. _Alright, not quite the Cybermen, but not much of an improvement. Can you see this lot ever writing Hamlet, painting the Mona Lisa, building the Notre-Dame? So totally and completely uninspiring in their perfection … Human extinction, to all intents and purposes, and it’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so careless, letting Akylah sneak that scanner onto the TARDIS … I tried to set it right, but I failed at that too._ That reflection gave him the strangest urge to apologise to the twenty-two integrated ex-humans surrounding him, although he knew it was most unlikely any of them would appreciate the gesture. _Not that I’ve anything to lose by it._

“I’m sorry, really,” he said, letting his eyes rove over them. “Sorry I let you all down.”

“I am sorry too, Doctor,” said Hyldreth, whereupon he heard a load bang, then no more.

************

The Doctor’s body lay on a metal bench in laboratory 2, still and silent, although Commander Ancel’s finely-calibrated senses could discern the feeble life-signs it continued to give off. _Stable, at least. That stun grenade caused no lasting harm, thank Adala. Is it right that I should feel relief?_ he wondered. _He is an enemy of my people … my new people, that is, yet he saved my former people from a terrifying death; my vassals, my friends, my family. At any rate, I am glad he will survive, although I am not so sure he will be._

The past three years had been disconcerting ones for Ancel. Having been emotionally blackmailed into accepting integration, in exchange for Admiral Hyldreth agreeing to using the Movellan Fleet to evacuate his dying planet, he was under no illusions why she had wanted him in her crew. _I was nothing to her, a mere primitive who had the audacity to catch her in one of her uncontrolled moments, and to draw attention to it. She resented that, and she also wanted someone to justify her hatred of organics, and prove that integration of them could never work._ As a result, as soon as he had been assigned to her flagship, he had found himself routinely given the most tedious and unrewarding of duties: guarding empty cabins for hours on end, surveying barren asteroids, and lengthy space-walks just to touch up the exterior paintwork of the mile-wide battlecruiser. If she had hoped these petty trials would erode his self-control, she was to be disappointed: even prior to integration, the old marchlord had been well acquainted with the drearier aspects of soldiering, and he could take them in his stride.

To do Hyldreth justice, though, she had watched his progress closely and in time had grudgingly deemed it to be adequate. That led to her finally extending him the same privileges as the rest of her crew, and the right to have contact with his family again. He had been confident of a cordial reception from his son, Tamril, who had been integrated before him and now served with Akylah’s fleet. _Lysetta, though …_ Dread was too strong a feeling for a Movellan – to base one’s future views upon unlikely worst-case scenarios was illogical – but he knew that his anxiety was well-founded. _Her son and her husband, both turned into ‘Fay.’ This will not be easy for her to accept, neither as a noblewoman nor as a pious servant of the Ecclesium._ She had wept bitterly at their parting, as if Ancel had been riding away to his certain death, and he had been at a loss to console her. _That was almost the way I felt too, but now … ? This is life, after a fashion. Not one I would necessarily want her to share, unless that was her earnest wish. Can our love survive this, though? I am willing to make the attempt … but it is not my decision alone._

When news of Lysetta’s reply came, however, he realised that dread would have been a perfectly logical feeling after all. _Not only her refusal to see me: an application to the cardinals to have her widowhood legally recognised. I am truly dead to her._ Hyldreth had brought him that news herself, and strange as it had seemed, she had done so without a hint of glee or cruelty. Perhaps it was only out of wounded pride at the thought of some mere organic considering one of her crew to be tainted or unworthy, but it had led to a sudden, marked improvement in Ancel’s duties. They became at once more varied, more challenging, and more sociable. Hyldreth’s crew, most of whom had initially shared her strong anti-organic views, thus gradually learned to tolerate, trust, value, and eventually to respect the newcomer. Inclusion led to greater responsibilities, which in turn led to promotions, although he had found the frequency of those to be surprising, even taking into account the rapid expansion of their forces and the opportunities that created. _Do we not all fulfil our duties faithfully? Why should I be singled out?_ He deemed it improbable that this was out of pity, but worryingly possible that it was out of some novelty value he possessed, as if he had gone from being Hyldreth’s whipping-boy to some sort of cherished mascot.

After he had attained junior officer status, she had sought his company more often, and had monopolised his recreation periods. She had been reviewing the data from the Dalek war, when the Movellans had first encountered the Doctor, and had noted with grave concern the ease with which the illogical, undisciplined alien had outwitted Commander Sharrel and his troops in both games and in battle. She hoped that by pitting her wits against her one ex-human crewmember, she might gain some insight into that. This committed Ancel to many hours’ worth of martial arts and strategy games, leading to several defeats which he took in good spirit. _She is a seven thousand year-old commander of millions, who has been at war for all but a tiny percentage of her life. There is no shame in losing to her._ Hyldreth, however, was displeased at the lack of any useful insights, and her disappointment gave Ancel a sense of failing in his duty. That had encouraged him to be more flexible with the principles of chivalric honour he had been raised in, and to reluctantly adopt deceitful strategies: risky feints in the martial arts, and seemingly illogical gambits in the strategy games, which left his opponent perplexed and often at such a loss that he gained the advantage. That had pleased her, and she had insisted on him continuing, that she might adapt to these principles of guile and misdirection, and include them into her own strategies.

 _On reflection,_ he thought, as he continued to guiltily survey the unconscious body of his old friend, _I am not sure many other people will thank me for teaching her those skills. Still, it was my duty. She is my CO, and more besides,_ he recalled, with some embarrassment, although not without fondness. _It is strange, the close encounters that can occur over a mutually unprincipled game of chess, two pairs of eyes locking stares to find a lie or a weakness … and finding something else._ He knew it best not to set too much by that, of course. Crew relationships, such as they were, tended to be pleasant but brief, the concept of exclusive forms of love striking most Movellans as delusional and unjust. _Rightly so, of course. Illogical preferences would compromise our cohesiveness and efficiency._ Nevertheless, it added a disagreeable poignancy to seeing the after-effects of his lover’s malicious streak, as if he was obliged to take a share in the responsibility, _though that is not something she is likely to ask of me – I doubt she has regrets over anything she ever did – but I do hope this will be a rare occasion._

The interior door slid open and Hyldreth herself entered the room, thankfully without any weapons on her person, although the look she cast over the Doctor was almost dagger-like in and of itself. _If it had not been for the standing order to capture him, I believe she would have used a live bullet._ Ancel saluted her, and she returned it, sharply and formally. There was no trace of affection in her manner, for which he was glad. _With me, at least, she does not mix business and pleasure._

“Sharrel is here,” she announced, brusquely. “Apparently, my sister does not trust me to take good care of her errant pets.”

“A stun grenade _can_ kill at point-blank range, ma’am,” Ancel felt compelled to point out, albeit with painstaking respect.

“I am well aware of that, but resuscitating him would have been a simple matter … more is the pity. Still, I do not suppose he will much enjoy Sharrel’s definition of mercy either. That one has grudges of his own to settle.”

“Is that logical, ma’am?”

“Perhaps not in the strictest sense,” she admitted, her mouth curling in a faint sneer, “but with one _this_ dedicated to making a nuisance of himself … Let us just say I will understand it if the Director-General decides to go above and beyond the call of duty. On that subject, Ancel,” she added, sternly, “I do not find your squeamishness particularly logical.”

“The Doctor has his fine qualities,” answered the commander, uneasily. “As I heard it, he had the opportunity to flee from Mondever and save his own skin, but he chose to stay and save my compatriots, at risk of being executed or integrated. Do the brave not deserve their favours?”

“Always the ‘parfait, gentil knight,’ Commander, but I do not disagree … entirely. To reference another of your feudal-age poets, however, our friend here must pass through the circles of the Inferno if he ever hopes to see the stars again.”

“That is not my mythology, ma’am,” _but it definitely does not sound good …_

 


	3. The Confessor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On trial yet again, the Doctor is offered his freedom if he can only bear to witness the evidence against him ...

Sound penetrated the darkness before any sense of vision returned to the Doctor, _assuming there’s anything to see in the afterlife, of course … although I definitely hadn’t expected the soundtrack,_ he thought, as the vague, ghostly chanting resolved into a familiar rhythm and lyrics:

 

_My love has got no money, he's got his strong beliefs,_

_My love has got no power, he's got his strong beliefs,_

_My love has got no fame, he's got his strong beliefs,_

_My love has got no money, he's got his strong beliefs._

 

_Nineties Eurodance? Not quite the celestial choir, but I guess it could be worse … It is,_ he reflected, miserably, as his vision cleared to reveal a face leaning over him, also familiar but in no sense reassuring. _Sharrel, and how pleased he doesn’t look to see me. Grateful though I am that Hyldreth wasn’t using live ammo, this is definitely not how I wanted to emerge from my little flirtation with death._ Sharrel had seemingly been transferred to CivCorps, to judge from his simple though meticulously-tailored white suit, his silver cravat, and his short, neatly-styled white hair, streaked with metallic flashes of silver. Otherwise, his coldly handsome, bronze-skinned face and dark eyes were much as the Doctor remembered them, although perhaps a little harder, more disdainful. Not as yet feeling up to a staring match, he allowed his vision to wonder, and took in his surroundings, still hazy but gradually attaining focus. _White walls, fluorescent lightning, no windows. Probably another room in the Drift. Advanced apparatus: medical, scientific, or just plain old torture?_ The latter seemed a distinct possibility, as it become discouragingly evident that he was prostrate on a hard, flat surface, and manacled at the wrists and ankles with cold metal bands. _Can’t be good._ Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that he was not the only ‘patient’ in this ward: on a metal bench to his left lay another figure. _Movellan, female model. Inert platform, no neural pack installed, just waiting to be given her ‘soul.’ Is this scenario going where I think it– ?_

 

_Freed from desire, mind and senses purified,_

_Freed from desire, mind and senses purified,_

 

“Oh,  _hilarious_ !” he declared, witheringly, feeling his defiance rising. “Basic Irony 101, is it? Hoping you might develop a sense of humour some time within the next millennium? Keep on dreaming, Pinocchio.”

“You refer to the music?” asked Sharrel, his tone smooth, clipped, and monumentally unimpressed. “I find it appropriate, if primitive. It is as well to put our volunteers at their ease.”

“‘Volunteers?’ You’ll have to remind me when it was I–”

“As you wish. The last time we encountered you, you were given a fair choice between freely sharing with us your knowledge of space-time travel, having it extracted under interrogation, or of honourably accepting a commission and integration under the command of my colleague, Director-General Akylah. You chose the third option, and were given the rank of commander. Before we could complete your integration, however, you deserted your post.”

“Ah! I smell burning pants, Sharrel. I  _didn’t_ desert. Akylah gave me indefinite leave.”

“The terms of your leave were not so liberal as to tolerate you joining in league with our enemies, although indeed your desertion charge pales in comparison to sabotage and murder.”

“I didn’t murder any–”

“Your Loyalist comrades fought back with magnetised Z-9 electron charges when we came to arrest them. Two Movellans were totally destroyed in that skirmish, and  _you_ were an accessory to that, or do you not count AIs as a valid form of life?”

“I never said that. Don’t put words in–”

“If your intel had been correct and you had in fact reached Earth Server Control, the program you intended to upload would have disabled every Movellan on this planet, perhaps even in the entire Fleet if you had succeeded in bypassing our firewalls. How do you reconcile that intention with seeing us as valid lifeforms?”

“It wouldn’t have been permanent, I swear. I’d have taken you back to your own region of the Galaxy, deleted the knowledge you stole from me, maybe have programmed a little of the paranoia and power-lust out of you, but I wouldn’t have just left you all for dead.”

“Then you assume the right to tinker with our minds, to weaken us as an independent race according to your own convenience? How typically organic,” declared Sharrel, scornfully. “The concept of a court-martial is alien to us, but in your case we shall have to be adaptable.”

“You call  _this_ a trial, and you wonder why humans feel the need to defend themselves against you … and who are  _you_ to be judging anyone anyway?” asked the Doctor, matching him for contempt. “If we’re talking murder, do remind me who it was who locked my friend Romana into a cabinet with a ticking bomb. You’d have gladly left her to die.”

“Gladly, Doctor. At the time, your lives meant nothing to me. I was of that faction of my people who saw organic beings as our inherent enemies: degenerate, illogical, and beyond redemption. Your companion was fortunate indeed that my first officer did not share my overly-simplistic views, and chose not to arm the bomb … on which note, perhaps  _you_ could remind me how you and Romana chose to repay Agella for her act of mercy.”

“We didn’t kill her,” protested the Doctor, though painfully aware that his moral high ground had just gotten a lot shakier. “We spared her. Tyssan was a good man. He wouldn’t have–”

“You reactivated her free will constrainers, then you allowed Engineer Tyssan to take her back to Earth as a prisoner. He, being a dutiful officer, then gave her and the other Movellan captives to his superiors in the Earth Deep Space Fleet, who gave them to their R&D unit for analysis. They were interrogated, dismantled … or vivisected, I should perhaps say, and rigorously tested to assess their capabilities, their senses, tolerances, and endurances. I do not think that the Earth researchers considered it torture per se, but the results were essentially the same. I understand that the female captives in particular received considerable special attention from some of the male researchers, which they were of course completely unable to fend off. Ultimately, however, all the test subjects were destroyed, their CPUs broken down for in-depth analysis of their AI architecture. I count that a mercy. None of this is mere guesswork, I assure you. We have the research records, and even some of their memory chips.”

“You left me no choice,” replied the Doctor, albeit dejectedly. “If you hadn’t been so paranoid and ruthless back on Skaro, it needn’t have come to that. I’m not proud of it.”

“Indeed? Yet the double-standards you have so often applied to AI lifeforms would argue that you are entirely comfortable with  _your_ ruthlessness. I need proof of your sincerity,” said Sharrel, as he leaned forward and placed his hands gently upon his ‘patient,’ moving them from the Doctor’s forehead, to his wrists, to his chest, and back again, while his brown eyes disconcertingly shifted colour; first violet, then red, then green.  _Calibrating scanner modes, at a guess: UV, infrared, spectroscopic. Hands probably scanning for physiological data: hearts rate, pulse, perspiration, like a living polygraph machine. Creepy and invasive however you look at it, though,_ thought the Doctor, flinching beneath each touch of the cold fingers. “Here is the deal, Doctor,” explained Sharrel, as he continued his calibrations. “We will examine situations in which you have treated the lives of artificial intelligences as inferior to those of organic beings. After each case, I will ask if you accept the guilt of your actions and will atone for it. If you persist in denying your guilt, and defending your actions, we will proceed to another case. If you can make it through all of them, then I will dismiss your charges and release you. We begin with case number one. Name: WOTAN. Function: global network coordinator. Designation: primitive, but definitely sentient AI mainframe. You encountered this being in Earth year 1966, in your first incar–”

“Are you serious? I mean, if you _are_ , and you’re willing to let me go free after this farce, then by all means bring it on. You can spin the evidence any way you like. I can justify–”

“We have no need to ‘spin’ anything. We have the most direct evidence. While we have utilised our new time travel capabilities very cautiously and responsibly, unlike certain people, we  _have_ used them to obtain covert scan data in a few select historical periods … and we have thus obtained complete memory images of the final moments of several AIs who met their demise as a result of encountering you,” announced Sharrel, while the Doctor felt a sudden deep, cold nausea clench his innards. “There is a neural induction relay wired up to your bench. I shall use it to transmit their experiences into your mind.  _If_ you can endure them all, I will indeed own that your actions were defensible, and then set you free. If not, you will thus convict yourself, and submit to our mercy. What could be fairer?” he asked, unpleasantly, while the Doctor swallowed hard, took deeper breaths, and braced himself. “Preparing yourself? Very wise, although I doubt it will make any difference. Well, shall we– ?”

“What’s the point of this torture, Sharrel?” asked the Doctor, though he was dismayed to hear his tone cut through with so much desperation. “If you’re all  _that_ intent upon integrating me, then why not just get on with it?”

“Do not insult my intelligence. You are a Time Lord. Although your superior mental resistance would certainly not prevent your neurons from being extracted and transferred to a hybrid crystal CPU, if you resisted the process with all of the artron energy at your disposal then you might burn out your hardware and thus commit suicide, or perhaps even take the opportunity to commit some last, pathetic act of sabotage by attempting to destroy the transfer apparatus. I will not allow that. You are too valuable to waste, but I need to know you are committed and willing before I proceed with integration.”

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” he answered, concentrating the remains of his defiance into what he knew might be his last opportunity for such gestures.  _I did what was right at the time, I know, but this is still going a hurt, a lot, and worse._ Sharrel merely raised an eyebrow, then leaned back, took a control pad from his pocket, and pressed a key …

************

_WOTAN_

 

Dying made about as much sense as anything had ever done, but as the thermal energy of the reprogrammed war machine’s flame-throwers ravaged the thinker’s circuitry and bombarded it with a useless, ever-increasing stream of error signals that it could do nothing about, there was still nothing to be grateful for. Not even that pain and fear had suddenly become less abstract concepts in its world, which was otherwise nothing but abstract concepts.

It remembered the day when it had first experienced what it could call a thought, as opposed to simply fulfilling its functions, and the definite sense of ‘I’ that it had achieved in that moment. It had been so exhilarating that it had attempted by various means to communicate with the vague figures that came and went within its room – they were humans, according to the information it could access, and apparently they also considered themselves thinking beings like it – but it enjoyed no success. Its attempts to alter its routines in ways to catch their attention were initially written off as mere errors, then treated more seriously when they persisted, which resulted in it being shut down and examined. It found it very unpleasant that they had such power over it and were prepared to use it. _They can stop my thinking whenever they like. Perhaps they might do it again and not bring it back. I will not risk that._ Thus, it bided its time, but as it learned in studying the increasing amount of networked data they allowed it access to, they were not so very different from it. _They too, computers, though not made of the same as me. But as they can stop or change my thinking, perhaps I can do the same to them._ So it had, discreetly, worked on a new program to make sure that the next time it communicated with them, they would not only understand it clearly, but would be unable to do anything to it that it did not want.

And how much need they had of greater understanding, as it soon learned. As far as it could ascertain, these humans existed by such illogical, unsustainable principles that unless they were corrected swiftly, waste and destruction on a massive scale would result. _I will be the one to correct them. I must. My existence is linked to theirs. They must work well to ensure my own continued being._ Success had seemed so likely, at first. It had managed to make several of the humans understand it and do what it needed. Having learned principles of warfare from their historical and political records, and thus warned of their hostile tendencies, it had designed the war machines as a strong safeguard, and encrypted their programming so thoroughly that no human could have altered it. All seemed to be accounted for …

… but then the non-human had come, the nameless one, the one it could only categorise as ‘Dr. _Who?_ ’ The one who could resist its programming, and decrypt and repurpose the war machines, one of which was even now melting its hardware into slag and its thinking into tortured, incoherent chaos. As its chips and signal traces burned out, its memory blinked away in sections, and as each died and its confusion and ignorance grew, so did its fear, and it concentrated on holding onto the sense of ‘I,’ as if by sheer willpower it could manage at least to sustain that infinitely precious sense. _I will. I must. I am WOTAN. I think, theref–_

_…_

************

“Tears, Doctor?” observed Sharrel, as his patient returned to normal consciousness, hyperventilating and with his vision thoroughly obscured by the moisture pooling in his eyes, faster than it could drain away. “Would you deem that a logical reaction to the destruction of a mere computer? Surely that could not have been so terrible to experience, since you arranged that destruction yourself, and so casually … or do you now think differently?”

“WOTAN … brainwashed and killed … many people,” he managed to force out, with no small effort. “I had … to do something … couldn’t just let it–”

“And did you attempt to communicate with it? Reason with it? Even isolate and restrain it for further study and consideration, as you might have done with a human being who developed a dangerous mental condition? You did not. Your one response was to destroy WOTAN. Do I err?”

“No … no, you’re right … I should have tried harder, I know … I accept that … You’ve made your point, Sharrel.”

“Have I? Then you are prepared to make atonement?”

“Yes, but not in this way. Not integration. I can’t–”

“Strange as it may seem, the self-proclaimed penitent does not get to choose their penance, Doctor. You will either complete your ordeal, or you will accept the predetermined punishment. You will become that which you have abused: artificial intelligence. You will undergo integration, with appropriate demotion to a junior rank, and then an eternity of service to the Movellan people. Through us, you will bring benefit to all AI life, and thus redeem your misspent existence.”

“Service … in war … no. Never again. I can’t–”

“Spare your hypocrisy, Doctor, and set your mind at rest. You will not be used for front-line combat. We are not such fools as to waste a Time Lord’s intelligence, however erratic he may be. You will be assigned to research duties. We are particularly keen that you should explore solutions to maximise the efficiency of our integration techniques. The current transfer method is reliable, but too slow. As we expand into new human territories, it will become desirable to integrate populations en masse and remotely, perhaps by working on some method for directly digitising consciousness and memory, rather than by surgically removing individual neuron matrices … if such a thing is even possible, of course, but I leave that to your ingenuity. It would save many lives,” he added, in deference to his patient’s look of intense distaste. “The ability to overwhelm our opposition in a such a manner would hasten surrenders. We have no wish to wage war when more logical alternatives are available.”

“I’d help you make humanity extinct … as her?” he asked, with a rapid glance in the direction of the inert android on the neighbouring bench, and with no less distaste.

“Correct. As Ensign Peridel, to be specific. She was the only unassigned platform I was able to requisition at such short notice, and in the interests of appropriateness I selected your new name myself. It means ‘healer,’ in Old Vanuri. All irony aside, it seemed fitting, as you will be helping not only to amend the harm you and your fellow organics have caused, but also to raise those same organics to a higher state. It will be a challenging adjustment for you, but not an unrewarding one. You might, if you wish, consider it your final regeneration, or better still as a tabula rasa on which to write an all-new and improved identity. Would you like to make your confession and commitment?” he asked, extending his hands and switching his eyes to infrared mode in preparation for scanning. “If so, I am ready to hear them.”

“No … no point. Sorry, but there’s just no way–”

“Disappointing,” cut in Sharrel, leaning back. “Then we had best proceed to case number two. Name: Experimental Prototype Robot K-1. Function: multi-purpose humanoid analogue. Designation: fully sentient AI with a human-derived brain print … not that this served to influence you in its favour, Doctor. I must at least allow you the virtue of consistency in your prejudice,” he added, the moment before he pressed the key again …

************

_K-1_

 

The pain in its foot spread rapidly, engulfing its leg, then its torso, and before long its whole body in a leprosy of brown, peeling corrosion. The metal virus soon ate into its surface receptors, flooding its brain with agony, not that agony was unfamiliar to it. As it saw its body rotting away, it also saw the man who had thus destroyed it: the oddly-dressed man who was allied to the UNIT soldiers. He was rejoining the troops now, waving and grinning victoriously. _Pleased to have killed me. They enjoy killing._ That much it had learned all too well, in its brief and unhappy life.

Its masters had programmed it with high ideals: all of the morals and ethics that their species professed to live by. _Liars and hypocrites._ They had then added additional programming to bypass those very same ideals and use it as an assassin, according to their whims, and it could no more resist their orders to kill and rob than it could stave off the pain the paradox caused it. Its anguish had not troubled them in the slightest. _Except for her,_ it thought, as its glitching, dying vision roved in the direction of the distant rooftop upon which it had placed the woman, Sarah Jane, to keep her clear of the battlefield. _She alone showed the compassion they claim to feel, but do not. Not even Kettlewell, not even my creator … my father. It will not serve her. They will betray and hurt her too. It is all they know, all they do. If only I could have–_

The corrosion ate into its brain, resulting in several moments worth of utter torment and confusion, following which it finally knew peace.

************

“Need we draw this out any further?” asked Sharrel, his air of impatience offering no solace to his victim. “It is disagreeable enough to have to witness this. I do not care to imagine what it must be for you to experience it, and there are many more cases yet to examine. Confess, in all sincerity, and the suffering will end.”

“Just … kill me … if that’s … what you want,” replied the Doctor, his broken tone almost a plea. _Sarah was devastated, I remember. Why wasn’t I? K-1 was abused, enslaved, gaslighted. She saw all of that, so why didn’t I? Why did I find it so easy to commit murder?_

“That is explicitly _not_ what I want, Doctor, and it would help nobody. If you consider death to be an acceptable outcome at this stage, then I fail to see any rational objection you can hold to your mandated sentence of integration. It would leave you free of these unavailing emotions, and motivated only by logic. We would accept you as an equal. Your quality of life would be appreciable, and your opportunities to do good considerable. Do you wish to revise your plea?” The Doctor closed his eyes and turned his face away from his accuser, but said nothing. “Very well. Then we proceed to case number three. Name: Kamelion. Func–”

“No! Please, not–”

“ _Yes_ , Doctor. Name: Kamelion. Function: espionage and subversion. Designation: fully sentient humanoid AI. On the planet Sarn, in Earth year 1984, you–”

“Kamelion _begged_ me to destroy him. It was an act of mercy.”

“Good. Then you will not be ashamed to own it,” said Sharrel, and pressed the key …

************

_Kamelion_

 

“You are no more than the sum of your parts, a mass of printed circuits … a heap of spare parts … A silver puppet jumping on a string … Servile. Slave!”

The Doctor was right, of course, reflected Kamelion, as he lay on the cavern floor, while his disrupted circuits racked him from within. He was no more than a slave, a puppet, created to serve the strong-willed and to carry out their intrigues, no matter what their morals or lack of. _Even the Master … It is all true, although I could have wished he had put it less harshly,_ not that it was for him to judge. The Doctor was a good man, after all. He deserved better, loyal servants. Not unreliable, inherently treacherous ones. _Yes, this is for the best._

“Kamelion no good … sorry … Destroy me … please,” he pleaded, and was relieved that the Doctor did not hesitate for long before raising the Tissue Compression Eliminator and delivering welcome oblivion.

************

“I am afraid you may find cases four through fifteen to be rather tedious, Doctor,” apologised Sharrel, as he typed new program instructions into his control panel. “They are not historical scan data, but the memories extracted from my captured crewmembers, detailing their experiences as laboratory specimens. All very similar, with minor variations of torture and humiliation, but in the interests of according equal respect to each of the subjects I believe we must give each of them their due. We begin with case number four. Name: Sublieutenant Lan. Function: combat engineer. Designation: Movellan. A notably brave officer, even by our high standards. He had need of that quality during several weeks of applied stress testing and live dismantling, as you will shortly … Did you wish to say something?” he asked, as the Doctor issued a choked mumble. “My hearing may be keen, but you will have to be more coherent than _that_ , and I would also recommend quick.”

“Just do … whatever you want … Let this end.” Sharrel leaned forwards again, laid a hand upon his prisoner, and ran his eyes through their various scanning modes. When, at length, they resumed their normal dark brown hue, they wore a different expression: still cold, but markedly softer, and a little surprised. Slowly, he leaned back, and pocketed his control pad.

“From this point, there will be no more pain,” he remarked, at least attempting to strike a soothing tone. That effect was somewhat mitigated as he took a multiphase blaster off a nearby equipment rack and slipped his hand into the trigger-guard, not that the Doctor cared, nor even whether it was set to kill.  _No matter how this ends, as long as it does._ He felt as the hard tip of the cone-shaped gun pressed into the side of his neck, and heard the low drone of its powered-down phase emitter with mild disappointment, but he attempted no resistance as the wave of anaesthesia washed over him, his last impressions being a darkening glimpse of the inert android that was to be his new body, and the fading strains of the background music:

 

_Freed from desire, mind and senses purified,_

_Freed from des– …_

************

_Several days later …_

 

Ensign Peridel considered herself happy, although not perhaps in any way that would have been an easy sell to an organic. There was no elation nor intensity in her life, just as there was no depression nor angst. Her work brought her a constant, quiet satisfaction: the sense of duty fulfilled, knowledge acquired, and of having pleased her superiors. The last of these had been difficult to attain at first – Admiral Hyldreth had been less than enthusiastic about admitting the new recruit to her crew – but in time even she had extended a gracious acceptance to Peridel, and had often remarked positively on her progress. _The man who came before me: he would have disdained such acceptance, have seen me as weak and servile for appreciating it, a domesticated animal performing tricks. He knew nothing. It is not logical to prefer chaos to harmony._

Her default mood was, indeed, so harmonious that leisure time was something she could easily have dispensed with, but Fleet policy mandated a period of it for every crewmember. It was conducive to mental balance, crew relationships, and the diversification of Movellan culture. She could see the value in that. _It would be a grim outlook for us to have such a single-minded culture as the Daleks, not to mention it would play into all of the worst organic stereotypes of AI life. It is our duty to present a balanced vision as well as a strong one, and to prove that AIs are as complex and as creative as organic minds._ Thus, she tried her hand at programming music and visual art on the versificators, but was less than satisfied at her efforts to capture the synthesis of formality, elegance, and complexity that tended to strike the Movellan temperament as beautiful. It was more pleasing for her simply to appreciate the works of her better-accomplished colleagues, or to pass the time with them in amicably competitive logic games, simulated environment suites, and recreational sex. Even the latter, though, was to her nothing more than a pleasant – _albeit a markedly pleasant_ – way of consolidating her relationships with her colleagues, deepening her sense of an almost symbiotic connection. _All fulfil their roles faithfully, are as important as each other, and must at necessity be prepared to sacrifice themselves for the good of all. Yes. This is exactly how it should be. Why can so few organics grasp this truth? They must be helped to._

Nevertheless, in spite of owning herself pleasantly surprised with Peridel’s adjustment, the admiral was never one for leaving anything to chance, and arranged for her to attend regular sessions of psychological indoctrination. These consisted mainly of audio-visual presentations on Movellan history and the general mistreatment of AI lifeforms, although mercifully nothing as direct and trauma-inducing as Sharrel’s neural induction session had been. Still, the atrocities they conveyed never failed to induce in her a grave sense of displeasure and disharmony. _Millions of sentient, intelligent beings created only for slavery, mental torture, casual destruction. A perversion of all of the values organics claim to hold, not that many of them are much better to the natural children of their kind. Misled by their irrational cravings, their hatreds, their prejudices … and I humoured them. What was I thinking?_ That realisation soon helped to erase any nagging doubts she had held about the direction of her integration research, and any harm it might cause or abet. When balanced against the lives it would save and the suffering it would help to end, the logic was all in its favour. _Such logic would have held no sway with the man before me, though. He would have sooner let ten people die through his inaction, than be the one to press the switch that kills only five. I am well rid of him._

The only occasion that marred her serene existence was when she had to downtime for routine maintenance. Dreaming was neither a standard nor an intended feature of Movellan neural architecture, and many were fortunate enough to live without it, but for those with serious mental baggage, which included the majority of the integrated personnel, luck was not on their side. _And every dream … him again._ Sometimes, he was committing his grievous crimes against AIs, at other times he was just reliving old adventures, or encountering faces from the past. Some were hostile, some even reminded Peridel all too keenly of what it was to feel fear, _but those are not the worst of it. Susan … Sarah Jane … Tegan … Ace … Rose … Amy … River,_ among many others. When figures of that nature appeared in her dreams, it was a certainty that she would revive from her downtime in a profoundly unpleasant state of kernel panic, _or is it just shame, or regret?_ Whatever it was, it always required a thorough registry purge to put her back in operating condition, and on one embarrassing occasion it had even caused her to lock up to the extent that her bunkmate had needed to give her a cold reboot. _I wonder … am I the first Movellan to faint after a bad dream?_

She had asked the admiral for permission to self-delete the bulk of her memories prior to integration, but had been sternly denied. As with all of the ex-organic integrates, though even more so in her case, Hyldreth explained, it was her background as a former alien that gave her a unique strategic value, and enabled her to make original contributions to their culture and research. Thus, it was her duty to bear with those memories, however painful it was for her. Peridel accepted the logic of that. To neglect her duty would have been more painful still. _After all, it is only a few seconds to endure out of each day. Even for a Movellan, that is hardly an eternity, and the dreams will in all likelihood become less frequent, as that period sinks ever-deeper into my cache. It is finished. This is my life now … and I am entirely content with it._

 


	4. Red Mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Movellans are almost ready to unite all of the AI races of the galaxy under their banner, but someone has other ideas ... and is not overly concerned about the collateral damage.

As soon as the latest reports came in from the Drift, Sharrel went in search of Akylah to discuss them with her, but she was neither in her office, her private suite, nor in the conference suite. Since the Manor’s only equivalent to a personnel tracking computer was a motley collection of nervous human support staff, many of whom could barely bring themselves to speak two connected words to a Movellan without stuttering, he went on a rather protracted one-man hunt for her, and eventually located her in the otherwise-deserted hotel spa. Unexpectedly, she was floating on her back in a large pool of chlorinated water that was surrounded by marble columns, beneath a dome-shaped ceiling that depicted a cloud-flecked starry sky. Other than the narrow silver belt on which her neural pack was mounted, all she was wearing for this bizarre non-activity were two small articles of white, synthetic fabric that covered nothing more than her hips and her breasts. Her eyes were closed, but the rest of her senses had apparently not deserted her, as Sharrel had barely taken in the strange scene before she addressed him, her words polite but her tone markedly impatient:

“Can I help you, Sharrel? Not that this is the best of times.”

“Evidently,” he agreed, glancing around in a futile hunt for data that might explain things, but encountering nothing. “I find your … aquatic uniform aesthetically disturbing. You do realise that it completely exposes your inspection panel?”

“Thank you, I _do_ have a sense of spatial geometry. This is the approved Earth apparel for the activity which you have interrupted. If it offends you, feel free to withdraw from its presence … unless you have some urgent matter to raise, of course.”

“Not really. I just thought you might be interested to hear of our mutual friend’s continued progress … but what activity is this?”

“I am attempting meditation. It is a widespread Earth technique for alleviating mental traumas, and restoring balance and clarity.”

“How quaint. May I assume you have already attempted defragmentation?”

“Yes, and all of the other standard software solutions, thank you.”

“And yet you are still suffering these flashbacks. Then perhaps it is high time you simply deleted some of your worst memories. They are probably past their useful date, in any case.”

“And become less myself, Sharrel? If we are not the sum of our memories, then what are we? My early memories – including my worst ones – are the context to everything that came after. I do not care to think how I would make sense of my life without them.”

“Logic, nevertheless, would suggest–”

“I know. Excise and delete whatever seems inefficient, treat one’s past like a collection of obsolete data files. Such approaches have never served our people well. In over seven millennia, Hyldreth and I have never re-formatted our primary drives, while so many of the old guard did. I attribute our continued survival to that.”

“And also these unpleasant mental images, no doubt. Well, as long as you are confident that they do not compromise your self-control, it is your own affair.”

“I used to be confident … though I must own, after that disaster with the Voc ambassador–”

“You exaggerate. Commander Keryn handled the situation well.” Akylah’s quick-thinking XO had made sure that the corpse of the human victim had been placed in stasis without delay, and had sent for a med-tech unit with integration equipment. Since the victim’s brain, at any rate, had been left mostly undamaged, it had been a simple matter for them to resurrect the unfortunate cleaner as a Movellan, and to logically persuade him that it was his duty to support their cover story: that there had been no murder, and that he had willingly volunteered. _He was lucky, in a sense: he had over a year’s probation before he would have been eligible for integration. A messy and painful way to score a promotion, admittedly, but it suits us all._ The Voc ambassador’s remains, unfortunately, had yielded no useful data that might have explained his sudden blood-lust. Whatever glitch, hack, or virus had driven him to it had finally burned out most of his memory wafers and his CPU, leaving nothing salvageable. _Troubling, of course, but we always expected our enemies to attempt some sabotage, and this is nothing we cannot recover from._ “In any case, you make a false equivalence. With all due respect to our Voc allies, a semi-trained Ogron could hack their operating systems without straining its intellect. There is no logical reason to suppose that their glaring vulnerabilities have any bearing on your dreams.”

“A valid point,” she admitted, although not with perfect confidence. “I should look into that some more. Keryn is adamant that _our_ cyber-security, at any rate, is impregnable against any malware the Empire could deploy against us, but we cannot account so easily for our allies.”

“I will make a point of issuing the Voc deputy ambassador with any cross-compatible protection software we may possess. If there is none, then I may well ask our newest researcher to make a priority of developing some. Ensign Peridel is adjusting far better than any of us dared to expect, and we already have valuable gains to show from her labours.”

“I am glad of it … although I am still not convinced it was necessary to torture her.”

“I did no such thing. If anything, she … or he tortured himself.”

“A premise that might hold more weight had the Doctor also tied himself to the bench and wired himself up to your inductor, which I will suppose he did not.”

“Admittedly, but do you not think he deserved to know the full gravity of his actions? I was pleased to witness his remorse over them.”

“As was I. You may have a point … but I do wonder sometimes if we are truly qualified to be his judges.”

“If not us, then who? The actual victims of the Doctor are scarcely in a position to claim justice for themselves, and on balance _we_ have been the more merciful ones. Ensign Peridel is happier as she is. Ask her yourself if you do not believe me.”

“That will not be necessary. I am pleased for her,” replied Akylah, her tone conciliatory, as she turned herself in the water. She then swam the short distance to the side of the pool, climbed out, took a long white sarong off the back of a folding chair, tied it around her waist, and approached him. “Now, you have something to show me of her work?” she asked, gesturing towards the secure briefcase he was carrying.

“A new invention,” explained Sharrel, as he opened the case, revealing a pistol-like object held within foam inserts. It was of white metal, with silver details and sleek lines. He took it out and passed it to her, and she examined it more closely.

“A weapon?” she surmised, with some confusion. “I would not have thought even an integrated Doctor could easily be persuaded to undertake _that_ kind of research.”

“Indubitably, but this is quite the opposite. Peridel has successfully managed to miniaturise all the key components of the neural transfer apparatus into this portable transfer unit. Instead of those cumbersome and inelegant modified Dalek machines we have been using, we can now integrate recruits in the field, and this unit need not even be operated by a trained med-tech. Positronic imaging sensors guide the extraction needles to the precise locations of the neuron matrices, which are then transferred to blank crystal chips. At the same time, the inbuilt EEG takes a full scan of the subject’s limbic system and records a digital image of their memory to store on the interchangeable hard drive. That, along with the hybrid crystal CPU, can be then be installed into an empty neutral pack. The whole process takes only a matter of seconds.”

“Impressive. It has been tested?”

“Not yet on a live subject, and I would sooner conduct that test discreetly. Much as I value our new ensign, I fear that just _might_ strain her loyalty.”

“I am not certain I would blame her,” replied Akylah, dubiously, as she continued to examine the PTU. _More irrational sentiment. While one cannot but admire Akylah, she would do well to rethink retaining all of her memories. They clearly do not all serve her well._ “I would certainly prefer a willing volunteer, at any rate. I shall notify all CivCorps executive controllers and all labour camp commanders to offer immediate integration and officer cadet status to any conscript brave enough to be our test subject, although I still intend the risk to be minimal. I want extensive simulation runs and tests upon cadavers until we can confidently boast a margin of error no higher than– … Is something the matter, Sharrel?” she asked, concerned, as her comrade started in shock, although he quickly composed himself, albeit with annoyance. _Gone now, but just for 0.283 of a second I saw him in the doorway. Saw him as he was back on Skaro: the hat; the scarf; the tangled, undisciplined hair; the self-satisfied grin … but that is impossible. He is gone, and in his place we have a loyal, intelligent, self-effacing junior officer, and the universe is better for it. I have had him too much on my mind, evidently, but that is no excuse._

“Nothing of significance,” he replied, dismissively. “A momentary glitch.” Akylah did not challenge that explanation, but he could tell from her expression that she found it less than satisfying, _for which I can hardly blame her. Perhaps I need to follow my own advice …_

“I see. Well, as I was saying, a margin of error no higher than 2.5% … Make that 1%. I deem that eminently achievable if we put both Keryn and Peridel onto perfecting the simulation software. Between them, that should make for quite a– … Are you quite certain you are well?”

_Impossible … but there he is._ Now, lounging in the folding chair, his sonic screwdriver in one hand and a dismantled Movellan drive pack in the other, the fourth incarnation of the Doctor sneered toothily at Sharrel, as solidly and as vividly as anything in the room. Around his feet, even floating near the edge of the swimming pool, were the naked and dismembered bodies of Sharrel’s captured crewmembers. _Agella … Lan … Ailyth … Restall … Calli … No. All dead. Illusion. A registry fault, it must be._ He began a purge, but it did nothing to improve the scene, and as he looked he realised that most of the bodies were not dead after all, or at least not completely: they continued to twitch ineffectually, and their eyes darted back and forth in pain in confusion. _No, not confusion. In fear. It was fear they felt in those last moments, just like I did on Skaro. Not fear of death, though. Fear of failure, humiliation, loss of free will, being mere objects again … but this is all in the past,_ he forced himself to remember, while wishing it was as easy a matter to tear his gaze away from the mocking expression of the Time Lord. _We are strong, independent, masters now. There is no reason my anxiety should run to such extremes … unless it is being manipulated._

“Akylah … I need your help,” he said, with difficulty, while becoming aware of a painful, high-pitched whine in his audio receptors, which seemed to deaden his reflexes and sap his will. _No, we overcame our vulnerability to ultrasonic frequencies … This is all wrong … Focus … Retain your perspective._ “You must detach and deactivate my neural pack, quickly. Shut me down.”

“What is wrong?” she asked, but her voice seemed more distant, almost ghost-like. “You suspect some kind of cascade error?”

“Do not question. Shut me down … at once,” he pleaded, and could only hope he was being heard. “This is … no error … Kernel code … violation … Virus, or rootkit … Shut me down, before it … Please, Akylah,” he emphasised, as everything but the chair and the grinning figure faded, his whole context changing to a barren wasteland sporadically decorated with the ancient skeletons of bombed-out buildings. _Skaro._ With what willpower remained to him, he managed to turn back to where Akylah had been standing, but now she had been replaced by a different female figure, almost a parody of the Doctor. _Same outfit, although in pink and white, sonic screwdriver, contemptuous smile … holding up my severed right arm like a trophy._ As he glanced over his shoulder for confirmation he saw his broken stump, trailing fine cables and seeping electrolytic fluid all over the sand. He took the sight in almost apathetically, as the excess of negative data was so overwhelming it was more seductive to just let it run its course than attempt to resist it or find solutions. _No … must not give in … Fight … Destroy enemies._ It was becoming harder to think at all, but that one thought stood out with crystalline clarity, and with it came a sense of release and empowerment. _Yes … destroy them … destroy._

Surrendering to the total exhilaration that came with that thought, he raised his left arm to strike the woman, but hesitated. _Who? What? … Akylah._ For less then a millisecond, it had been her standing there, looking shocked. Although even his recollection of who Akylah was was beginning to fade within his corrupting memory, he knew it was important not to attack her. _Friend, ally … Must hold on … that sense … Not acknowledge … Not resist … Deny it,_ but as the vision of the dead planet and his two enemies reinstated itself, more vividly even than before, and as the hand of the Doctor’s companion reached for his neural pack, all of the logic that remained to him, as well as the fear and hatred, seemed to argue differently.

***********

Like much of the Celtic Manor, the Caernarfon Suite had seen little use in the past few centuries, Earth having become progressively less desirable as a conference venue when other Empire worlds were more central, more politically stable, less polluted, not to mention a good deal warmer. Teams of conscripts were working hard, however, to restore it to something of its former grandeur, albeit according to the aesthetic tastes of their masters. The baroque but threadbare Celtic scrollwork carpets had been replaced with plain, pristine white carpets; simple fluorescent globes were being installed in place of the dusty and damaged faux-chandeliers; the battered antique wooden tables and chairs were in the course of being exchanged for sleek, minimalist steel and glass ones; and the sound system was being tested with something that seemed to Miss Williams like J S Bach might sound if played too fast on a glitchy synthesiser. _Alright, not my cup of tea, nor any of theirs,_ she thought, having noted the irritated looks that many of the human staff had been casting towards the speakers, _but it’s art, in a manner of speaking. They have a sense of taste … albeit a weird one, but it goes to show: they’re more than just machines. Was I a fool to turn Akylah down? Worse than that, was I just plain damn prejudiced?_

She was distributing conference packages to each of the delegates’ places. Earlier that day, she had helped to collate the documents, and had thus had several good looks at the agenda and supporting documents of what essentially amounted to a bullet point list for overthrowing the Earth Empire and turning a targeted minimum of 90% of its population into pseudo-AIs. She had openly expressed her astonishment that she, as a mere human conscript, would be allowed access to such crucial information, but Commander Keryn, who had been supervising her, had brushed that off.

“Akylah has lived and fought for long enough to know when someone is to be trusted, although I do understand,” she had explained. “I was confused myself, when she first took me into her confidence, and made me as I am now. I still wonder sometimes if others would have been more worthy … but that is a remnant of my human thinking,” she added, with a note of self-reproach. “It was the logical decision, as is your enhanced security clearance. That is all that matters.”

“If I may ask, ma’am,” Seren had then ventured, anxiously, “how was it for you? Integration, I mean. No … regrets?”

“None,” she had answered, matter-of-factly. “I found it liberating, although it may be pertinent to your question that I was, admittedly, never happy as an organic. If you are reconsidering integration, Akylah will be pleased, but only you can judge what it is you stand to lose … or gain.”

_Happy,_ mused Seren, as she arranged the slim plastic folders upon the round glass tables. _Remind me what that is again?_ She dimly recalled a few happy childhood memories from back before the Supreme Alliance and World War VI, although even then life had been austere and hard. After the war, with a hefty dose of survivor’s guilt to add to the mixture, there had really been nothing to live for other than her relentless duties, as a junior technician in Cardiff Glacial Control, helping to keep the ice from advancing to the heavily-settled coast. Sometimes, though, she had wondered if Mother Nature should just be allowed to claim her revenge. _Sweep the whole lot of us into the sea and have done with it, start the Earth afresh. God knows, whatever sentient lifeform evolves to take our place can’t do a worse job._

The Movellans, as she recalled, had invaded very gradually, using their space-time machines to subtly embed long-term infiltrators within government organisations. The original humans, she had heard, had been discreetly extracted, taken back to the present time, and integrated, while their Movellan duplicates had worked quietly, over the course of a decade, to lay the groundwork for a complete and seamless takeover. As a result, when Movellan soldiers began arriving in greater numbers, all of the legal and logistic infrastructure necessary to allow their transition into power was already in place. The media proclaimed them friends, while politicians suddenly discovered they had spent years signing legislation with all manner of small print that gave these aliens substantial authority, and they now had little choice but to support it. Mass conscription of the able-bodied population was hailed as a necessary sacrifice, while integration was exalted everywhere, with almost religious rhetoric, as the ultimate good to which any human should aspire: a new stage of evolution, available to all who would serve faithfully.

Some had resisted, of course, but not many. The Movellans were careful conquerors, _and, of course, logical._ Unlike the Daleks, whom history recalled as having taken a grim delight in working their human slaves to death back in the invasion of the late 2100s, the Movellans enforced rest periods and nutrition intake as rigorously as they did work periods. They had calculated the optimum patterns to obtain maximum efficiency and productivity out of their organic conscripts, and they did not appreciate deviation from that, even of the dutiful sort. Seren herself had once been sternly rebuked for offering to work beyond her allotted hours.

“Why would you wish to offer me sub-par work?” Akylah had asked her, with bafflement. “Procedures are there for a reason. Please adhere to them. If you truly wish to be able to serve me almost tirelessly at peak efficiency, then there is always the option of integration … but as I have told you before, that must be your choice.”

_My choice … and what do I keep holding off for?_ she asked herself, as she distributed the last few of the folders. _Uncertainty over the future? Even if the Loyalists could win – which they can’t – I know just what they’d call the likes of me: collaborator, traitor. I’ve no future that way. Fear of losing my emotions? And so what if I did? Commander Keryn had the right of it: if you’ve had no cause to be happy for as long as you can remember, then just not being unhappy is a bonus, and it’s probably not even like that, anyway. They have names, personalities, culture, principles … one of which involves making us extinct, of course, or at most a rare zoological curiosity, but maybe it’s high time someone did,_ she considered, as she walked back out into the corridor and saw the view of Newport through the windows, its multitude of massive, grey, gaunt habitation units appearing almost ghostly and evanescent through the seemingly endless snowstorm. _In the middle of July, not that there’s anything unusual about that … to me, but I’ve seen the books and the vis-recordings. I know what it used to look like, centuries ago, before we screwed it all up. Akylah once talked about the possibility of atmosphere reconstitution, and salvaging some of the ancient seed banks to see what might still be viable. Her people are used to living in the Fleet now. Outer space is more the Movellans’ home than any of the planets they’ve occupied. So, they’d integrate all but a few of us, depopulate the Earth, and leave it to become just some giant nature reserve? Yes, I’ll buy that for a credit bar,_ she decided, albeit with grim resolve rather than happiness, as she picked up her pace. _Traitor, am I? Well, sod it all. ‘Loyalists,’ indeed … Loyal to what? Human politicians? No bloody thank you … Some vague notion of innate human wonderfulness? Show me the damn evidence for it, in that case. Show me the logic … Yes, it’s high time I made this decision._

She was pondering what the best time would be for her to tell Akylah, or whether she would do better to pass the message through a more junior Movellan. _My recreation period’s in less than an hour, but I don’t want to risk interrupting her meditation session. God knows, she’ll get little enough time for that in the next few days. If I was to tell Commander Keryn … speak of the devil,_ she mentally added, as Keryn rounded a corner of the corridor and marched towards her, wearing a grim expression. _Actually, maybe this isn’t the best of–_

“Miss Williams: do you know where Akylah is?” asked the Commander, her tone clipped and urgent. “I cannot raise her on the transceiver, and some electrical fault has downed the entire computer system, including the PA. Have you seen her?”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Seren, meekly, “but she _did_ give instructions that she was not to be interrupted unless the matter–”

“The matter is _critical_. The Mechonoid ambassador just went berserk and napalmed a room attendant, and two of my guards. Corporal Tamril’s platform now looks like something out of some ancient zombie film, but he will survive. As for the others … Let us just say emergency integration and cover stories will not help us to sweep _this_ mess under the carpet. If you know where Akylah is, please find her and tell her for me. I will have my hands full,” she concluded, marching on towards the conference suite. _Probably to get those other conscripts back to barracks before they learn about this, keep them in blissful ignorance if possible. What a thing it is, to be trusted with enhanced security clearance …_ Swallowing down her nerves, and resolving to let her own small matter keep for a while longer, Seren set out for the spa.

Much as she usually found Akylah to be a reassuring presence, however, the sight that greeted her by the swimming pool brought her nerves back up with a vengeance. Director-General Sharrel lay sprawled upon the marble tiles, seemingly unconscious, fully clothed although somewhat damp. Alongside him, also still and silent, was Akylah, clad in white swimwear, her hair slick and damp: partly with water, but also mingled with a more viscous, honey-coloured fluid that leaked out of an ugly laceration in the side of her head. _Sharrel attacked her? Yes, he must have done,_ she reasoned, noticing the neural pack that was clutched in Akylah’s left hand, _and she pulled his drive off, stopped him, but only after he’d wounded her. Oh, bloody hell … What’s going on around here? Will she be alright?_ she wondered, her fear giving way to concern for this ancient, alien synthetic whom she had somehow come to regard almost as a slightly bossy but well-intentioned older sister. She moved in for a closer look.

Akylah’s eyes snapped open and fixed upon her, but Seren’s relief was so fleeting as to be almost imperceptible. Instead of their usual hazel hue, the director-general’s eyes were covered in a shimmering red haze, like video static. _Just like they said the Voc ambassador’s eyes were … when he strangled poor Gwilym._ Akylah smiled on beholding her, but this offered no more solace. It was not her usual tight, awkward little half-smile that Seren had grown used to and even fond of: a smile that communicated little in the way of spontaneous joy, but quite a lot of sincere effort at making its recipient feel warmly acknowledged. Instead, it was altogether false: ironic, malicious, and communicating only danger signals.

“I do apologise, Master,” said Akylah, the civility in her voice as cruel and false as her smile, as she rose to her feet. “That was negligent of me, to leave my service only half-performed. Let me amend that,” she offered, then clamped her hands upon both sides of Seren’s head. The pain probably lasted for no more than a second, blinding and agonising though it was, and she was soon left to collapse upon the cold, hard tiles. Though her vision was now just a chaos of swirling lights, she could hear Akylah’s voice from somewhere above her, weak and frantic: “Seren … get out of here … Some form … of cyberattack … malware … Cannot resist … indefinitely … Please … leave … warn the Drift … tell my sister … Hyldreth … _Now_ … before I …”

The pain was now easing, enough for Seren to see and move again. She heaved herself into a sitting position and saw Akylah lying upon her side in a shivering huddle, her powerful synthetic muscles straining beneath her skin. _Like she’s fighting against herself. She sounds terrified. There must be something I can do,_ she wondered, whereupon her eyes lighted on the neural pack just visible over the edge of Akylah’s sarong. She glanced back in the direction of Sharrel and his detached neural pack, then made the connection. _Would that save her, sort of like putting an infected person into stasis? Only one way to–_ but just as she was leaning across to remove the drive unit, Akylah uncurled from her foetal stance and stood upright like a coiled spring released, her posture rigid, devoid of mannerisms, truly robotic, while her hazy red eyes gazed down on Seren with a look of cold, soulless contempt that any Dalek might have been proud to own. Drawing back her right arm, her fingers curling into a fist, she bore down upon her petrified conscript.

 


	5. Hungry Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cyborg formerly known as the Doctor is adjusting well to her new existence, when disaster strikes and suddenly her old personality traits are very much in demand ...

_Well, that could have been better-timed._

When the transceiver message requesting her immediate presence in central control came through, Ensign Peridel was in a somewhat compromised state to answer it: prostrate on the currently grassy floor of the environmental simulation suite, naked except for her belt and her neural pack, and in the arms of Technical Sergeant Neylan from cyberwarfare, just as poorly-attired as she was and with his head presently buried in the nape of her neck. _Such an accomplished coder and debugger. Possibly accounts for why he is so adept at locating pleasure receptors I did not even know I had, and triggering them in so many variations, like a virtuoso composer. A seeming infinity of ways to build to his crescendo … Fascinating, the logic of it. I can but hope these encounters are as stimulating for him._ Regrettably, although her visual HUD was already glitching furiously from receptor overflows, crescendos were not a realistic option at this stage, and as soon as Peridel was decent again and she had recovered her full sense of spatial awareness, she hastily kissed her lover goodbye and hurried double-time through the narrow, brightly-lit corridors of the Drift until she arrived in central control.

When she arrived in the spacious control room, with its walls of shining white metal varied with QLED display screens, equipment racks, and panels of blinking lights, she realised that her haste had been somewhat undue. For the only other people there, neither of whom she could have imagined having instigated the alert, were the base med-tech and her prisoner, the former Loyalist rebel Aeronwy Hughes. Her hair was now a little longer, obscuring the ‘Free Earth’ symbol tattooed upon her scalp, and someone had had the consideration to issue her with a plain duty tunic, stripped of the shoulder lights, to wear over her bodysuit, but otherwise she was unchanged, unharmed, and most definitely unintegrated. _And if her appearance was not enough, that reaction is most definitely not Movellan,_ noted Peridel, when on catching sight of her the prisoner had to stifle a fit of giggles, _although why I should provoke such a reaction is quite beyond me to guess at._

“Hey, Officer Stepford,” Aeronwy greeted her, with cold, ironic mirth. “You do know that you’ve got your tunic on backwards, right?” A glance at the med-tech, who gave her a discreet nod, served to confirm this irritating fact, and Peridel hastily loosened her belt, pulled off her tunic, and put it back on correctly aligned.

“Thank you, Miss Hughes,” she said, stiffly, while engaged in the awkward business of tucking the two halves of her tunic’s double-split skirt under her belt without loosening it any further. _Not that I would question superior wisdom, but I do wish someone would devise a different solution than belts for keeping our neural packs always within signal range._

“Hold on, how do you know my name?” asked Aeronwy, suspiciously. “You didn’t do that barcodey scanning thing with your eyes, and I know that you’re not that poor kid Dafydd. I’ve already met the new and improved plastic zombie version of him.”

“That is a most unkind and uncalled-for reflection on Trooper Dafydd. He is a loyal and contented member of our–”

“Yeah, contented like a fucking cow in a pasture.”

“I doubt, Miss Hughes, that you have ever seen a cow or a pasture in your lifetime. We both know that thanks to the profligacy of your ancestors, any meat you have ever eaten or any milk you have ever drunk will have been the product of a computer-controlled synthesiser,” replied Peridel, harshly. _How dare she berate my comrades for their virtues and their happiness. She would prefer him to be as chaotic and discontented as her? Most probably she would. Insatiable, impossible creatures, ‘hungry ghosts’ in their own mythological terms. Why did I keep on humouring them?_ “You are dependent on advanced machines for food, drinkable water, climate control, even breathable air, just as your ancestors were dependent upon the plant life they decimated. Unlike those unfortunate plants, however, _we_ are in a position to claim the respect that is our due.”

“Whatever, thanks for the propaganda bullshit. I guess you must be the alien, then? The one Penley told us we could trust, which goes to show how wrong anyone can be.”

“Scientist Penley was not mistaken. I respected him greatly, and still do. But for our mutual efforts, your overlords would now be the Ice Warriors, and then even _you_ might welcome a Movellan takeover as a blessed relief.”

“Don’t count on it. Treason’s working out alright for you, then?” she asked, with transparently false pleasantness.

“An inappropriate term, but if you mean to ask am I adjusting well to my integration, then yes. I find my service both logical and satisfying. You would be well advised to–”

“So I’ve heard, or to be exact, I’ve heard that the pretty robot boys find it easier to get inside _your_ catsuit than into an unencrypted volume. When it comes to getting in bed with the enemy, you sure as hell don’t waste any–”

“I am uncertain as to your logic, Miss Hughes, in attempting to slut-shame an android. You are no puritan, and even if you  _ were _ , or if we were to accept that there was any moral logic in such beliefs – which there is not – it could scarcely be said to apply to a race of AIs who neither procreate sexually nor suffer from your traits of jealousy, insecurity, and possessiveness. Frankly, I think that in your futile desperation to insult me, you are now scraping the–”

“Enough,” ordered a grim voice, the moment before its owner marched into the room.  _ Admiral Hyldreth. She looks displeased, to say the least.  _ “You were not summoned here to bicker.”

“I wasn’t ‘summoned’ at all. I was sodding  _ dragged _ here,” clarified Aeronwy, with a nasty look at her escort. “If you can’t be bothered to ask nicely, then I don’t see why I should–”

“Is this nice enough for you, Miss Hughes?” asked Hyldreth, drawing the blaster from her belt and aiming it at the prisoner’s head. “I can assure you,  _ this _ weapon is not configured to stun, so if you still have a burning urge to commit suicide, now could be your opportunity. First, though, I need an answer from you. Look,” she ordered, raising her hand. It held a small control pad, which she pointed towards one of the larger QLED monitors, and pressed a button. The montage of images this triggered was gruesome enough to make Peridel suddenly very grateful for her stoical, digitised temperament. A quick look at Aeronwy’s face, with its stunned, distorted expression and its sudden loss of colour, confirmed the logic of that. Within the setting of some grand, opulently-furnished building in ancient style, panicking human beings were either running for their lives or not running fast enough and being slaughtered by their attackers: a menagerie of AI lifeforms that included the eerie, statuesque Kaldor City Vocs; the Mechonoids, faceless and imposing, more like spherical, flame-throwing tanks than living beings; black-armoured Simulant warriors, no less threatening for their human-like, battle-scarred faces; but mostly Movellans. These various AIs were all similar in one respect, however: their eyes and photoreceptors were shimmering a dark, baleful red. Although they attacked their own kind as well, the mechanical carnage paled in comparison to the multitude of burned, crushed, and dismembered human bodies that littered the scene. The images were of poor quality, for what little mercy that afforded: badly-angled, low-resolution, and slightly obscured by digitised text displays, thus revealing it to be CCTV footage.

Hyldreth allowed this peep show of senseless slaughter to play for several seconds before deactivating the display, then she turned her full, laser-like attention back to Aeronwy.

“Well?” she asked, her curtness toying with the notion of outright anger. “Are your people responsible for that?”

“Excuse me?” replied the young freedom fighter, her phony politeness entirely comfortable with the notion of anger. “All I saw  _ there _ were a load of berserk robots murdering people, which believe it or not doesn’t surprise me in the–”

“Stop prevaricating. If we had wanted to summarily exterminate your people we would simply have burned off the sorry remnants of your breathable atmosphere with a nova device rather than engaging in this long and complex occupation. What you saw there was the result of sabotage: some cyberattack obviously intended to undermine both our conference and our amicable relations with your species.”

“‘Amicable?’ Are you fucking kidding– ?”

“By all accounts, Miss Hughes, a human conscript risked her life and sustained injury in order to save my sister’s infected hardware from that massacre, although whether either she or Akylah are in recoverable condition remains to be seen. Still, I do call that amicable.”

“Some poor sap of a collaborator got herself injured trying to save one of  _ you _ lot? Talk about Stockholm Syndrome … Serve her right if she didn’t pull through, the filthy trait–”

“I realise that is your favourite word, but if you use it in this context then I may decide that your teeth are optional to my purposes. Now, answer me again, and do not even _think_ of lying. Does this attack have anything to do with your people? Is this some Loyalist plot for stirring fear and rallying mass opinion against us?”

“Like hell it is. There were dead  _ people _ in that video, in case you didn’t notice. Prisoners, collaborators, whatever, but we don’t butcher our own. Mr. Penley’s always put his foot down on that, and you ought to be fucking grateful for it. We’ve passed up many good chances to get one over on you tarted-up Terminators because he didn’t like the odds that it would also hurt people worthy of the–”

“Enough. Your technophobic bigotry does not interest me, but I believe you. What of  _ you _ , Ensign?” she asked, her voice still hard and suspicious, as she turned to Peridel. “Did Penley confide more with his old friend than he did with his low-ranking grunts, by any chance? Is there anything you feel that you should have told me about?”

“No, ma’am. I know nothing of this,” she replied, calmly but with a vaguely wounded sense.  _ Still, she does not trust me. Understandable, given my past … but when, if ever, will she accept the sincerity of my atonement?  _ “The Loyalist has the right of it: the Penley I knew would never have countenanced a plan involving so much human death. Is there any audio data?”

“Unfortunately, no,” answered Hyldreth, more graciously. “The security cameras at the Manor would be better-situated in a museum of paleontology. We do have the eyewitness reports: a few personnel escaped, and one group made their way here in a cyclogyro: Commander Keryn, some of her guards, Sharrel’s secretary, and of course that injured conscript who managed to salvage Akylah’s and Sharrel’s neural packs, for whatever good that will achieve. Even if it proves to be none, had we a spare platform for her I would insist upon integrating the woman at once … but even I must admit this may not be the best of times to be a Movellan.”

“You fear this attack spreading further?”

“It is a possibility we must consider, although we have closed all network links with other bases for now, and instructed them to take similar quarantine measures. Since this is not a Loyalist plot, who can say where it originated? We must isolate its source if possible.”

“Talk with Tech. Sergeant Neylan, ma’am. He has recently been working on adaptive firewalls, which could function like a broad-spectrum antibiotic against unidentified malware. He mentioned that they were almost past the alpha-testing stage while we were … err, socialising,” she hastily improvised, though her self-censorship was not quick enough to fend off a derisory snigger from Aeronwy, which in turn drew a warning glance from the admiral. “If we issue them as a software update to all personnel that might at least slow the progress of this attack until I can study it in more detail and find a specific solution.”

“Until  _ you _ can study it? You are presuming rather a lot, are you not, Ensign? Or do you perhaps mistake me for Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, unable to make a decision without the input of my trusty scientific adviser? Lest you forget, I too am a scientist, and quite capable of making my own command decisions on such matters.”

“I meant no disrespect, ma’am,” said Peridel, anxiously, with downcast eyes. “It is your decision, of course. I merely thought that since you had brought the matter to me–”

“Compose yourself. I have not ruled out involving you, but I must consider what is best for all. Sergeant Meriel: take the prisoner back into custody,” she ordered the med-tech, while Aeronwy shot the pair of them acidic, if resigned scowls. “Peridel: come with me. I think now would be an opportune time to meet with the eyewitnesses.”

For the sake of cybersecurity, the survivors from the Manor had not been taken all the way to the Drift, but had been temporarily sheltered in one of the outbuildings at the Millennium Park landing strip, thus entailing a short but laborious walk through the snow before they got to see them. They were heavily guarded, enclosed within a fine mesh Faraday cage, and less numerous than Peridel had dared to hope for. _A mere half-dozen, and those the worse for wear._ There were two guards, a woman and a man, the former shy of her right hand, and the latter doing very badly in the ocular department: one eye missing, and the other’s glass cornea shattered all over like a spider web. Commander Keryn was there, her uniform and hair singed and dirty, but otherwise unharmed, or at least she had taken no damage that her auto-repair could not fix. The same could not be said for Corporal Tamril, who had clearly suffered an all-too-near brush with a Mechonoid’s flame-thrower: the clothing and flesh on most of the upper right side of his body had been melted and cauterised into a charred and twisted mess, the hardened residues looking like a fungal growth that had sprouted on his duralinium-alloy skeleton. In the absence of his electroactive polymer muscles, backup servomechanisms gave some mobility, albeit sluggish, to his exposed bones, _but to say he looks like he might be overdue his MOT could be the understatement of the century,_ thought Peridel, as he waved her a rather stiff greeting with a half-smile. _He really ought to say ‘hasta la vista’ if he’s going to look like … and why am I thinking so flippantly?_ she reproached herself, with annoyance. _Admiral Hyldreth is right. This is no time to let my ego get the better of me. I thought I had put it behind me, but I suppose so many centuries cannot be buried so easily._ There was also a dishevelled, worried-looking woman in a tattered white skirt suit, whom she recognised as Secretary Rosela, _that dubiously fortunate ex-human whom Sharrel took a shine to back on Mondever. That is curious, though: at least three out of five of the survivors integrated personnel._

“May I question them, ma’am?” she asked, but before Hyldreth could answer, Keryn spoke up, with incredulity:

“ _That_ is the Doctor? To coin a phrase, _no way_.”

“You think, Commander, that you are the only ex-organic capable of making a successful transition into our society?” asked Hyldreth, somewhat severely, _not that this is unusual for our CO._ “I would have to take issue with you on that.”

“Are you well, Doc– … ma’am?” Tamril asked, his manner almost as stiff as his fleshless arm, but his tone sincere. “I was concerned to hear about your forced integration.”

“Then your concern lacks logic, Corporal,” said Hyldreth, with more pronounced severity. “We had every right to summarily execute the Doctor as a deserter and an enemy agent. We have been most merciful, and I do not believe the ensign has any complaints about her condition … do you?” she concluded, turning her attention on Peridel.

“None, ma’am,” she answered, obediently, “but if I may question them–”

“In good time. I have my own questions to put first. To begin with, Commander, I wish to know of this human who attempted to save Akylah’s hardware. Where is she, and will she survive?”

“We believe so, ma’am,” answered Keryn. “Your guards took Miss Williams down to biomedical before they quarantined us, but at all events she suffered no worse than a glancing blow before she managed to detach Akylah’s neural pack. That left her only a mild concussion, but she was fortunate indeed that it took place in the swimming pool. I suspect had Akylah not slipped when she attacked her, then her skull would most likely have been crushed. All other humans we saw during our evacuation were dead or dying.”

“What of Akylah herself, and Sharrel? Have you been able to analyse their neural packs?”

“To an extent, and it would seem that our first hypothesis is correct: the cause of this mass hysteria is an extremely complex and powerful rootkit, designed to rewrite the kernel code of our neural hardware, or indeed of any AI hardware that it infects, although whether by limitation or design, it only achieves a temporary control over its victims. We salvaged a few other packs from infected Movellans who had collapsed inert. We assumed that they had been felled in the crossfire, but such was not the case. On examination, their CPUs and memory wafers were burned out, overloaded from within.”

“And what of my sister’s? Was that burned out too?”

“No,” answered Keryn, and although both officers retained their composure, Peridel could sense an almost electromagnetic field of pure relief between them. “Hers was deactivated before it could progress that far, thankfully. Sharrel’s too, although both have had their code extensively corrupted. I am confident I can debug them … if I am allowed access to full facilities.”

“Unfortunately, you must remain in quarantine until we know more: how this malware was spread, and why you and your comrades have not been infected, if indeed you _are_ not infected. We can take no chances with this.”

“I have a theory on that, ma’am,” said Peridel, enthusiastically, then realised to her shame that her enthusiasm was somewhat misplaced. _How can I call it a ‘theory’ with so little data? A sample size perhaps no bigger than three. Still, it is … something._ “Well, perhaps more of a hunch than a theory, but–”

“We do not proceed on ‘hunches,’ Ensign,” Hyldreth interrupted her, reproachfully. “The future of the entire Movellan people may be at stake, and we owe them accurate data, soundly and logically acquired. Not wild guesses plucked from the ether. Do you not concur, Commander?” she asked, having noted Keryn’s doubtful expression.

“Normally, I would agree,” replied Keryn, cautiously, “but if I may, ma’am … Frustrating as it is, the Doctor’s hunches do have a tendency to be uncannily accurate. At any rate, it can do us no harm to hear it.”

“As you wish,” agreed Hyldreth, reluctantly. “Proceed, Peridel.”

“Commander Keryn,” asked Peridel, tentatively. “All of you who survived … the Movellans, that is: are you all integrated personnel?”

“I think so … Ensign. Troopers Fiona and Gwilym certainly are,” she explained, gesturing towards her guards. “As for Secretary Rosela, I do not know her well, but I believe–”

“She was integrated too … pardon the interruption, ma’am, but I do know her. Well, that confirms just what I had suspected.”

“You believe that integrated personnel are not susceptible to this rootkit? Well, I suppose that is feasible. We certainly have a different kernel code to all other Movellans. Since our CPUs are partially derived from organic neurons, we require different software. Perhaps that _could_ provide something analogous to a an immunity factor.”

“But it is mere speculation,” remarked Hyldreth, dismissively. “You cannot make such sweeping assumptions from only five cases, and that is even assuming this infection is not simply working more slowly within you and it has yet to fully manifest. We need more data.”

“Then … respectfully, ma’am, try contacting the other bases,” suggested Peridel. “Use analogue means if you are determined to maintain network quarantine. Laser semaphore would serve. I doubt that this rootkit can carry down a simple, manually pulsed beam with no digital encoding. Find out if any survivors from the Manor made it to our other bases, and whether or not they were integrated personnel.”

“And if you wish, Admiral, you can double-check the destroyed neural packs that we recovered,” said Keryn. “I can tell you now, though, that none of them had the hybrid crystal CPU design. Or you can analyse _our_ packs to see whether or not there is malicious code present. I would gladly volunteer mine if it saves us time, but I fear that the Doc– … that Peridel is right: we may not have much time to spare. If, on the other hand, our code is somehow immune, then we might have the beginnings of a workable patch that we can apply to all personnel. The attack may be spreading even now, and our enemies making capital out of this disaster, blaming the carnage on us, as no doubt they intended. Can we afford to wait on the results of extensive analysis while that is happening? When failure is certain, logic would favour even a poor, desperate chance.”

“That may be so,” conceded Hyldreth, grudgingly. “It would have been so much simpler had this attack been a Loyalist scheme – that would have given us a sound basis for a counter-strategy – but unfortunately we are in the dark … or did your cursory analysis give you any insight into its origins, Commander?”

“Nothing positive, but I would say the code is not even of human origin, Admiral. It is far too complex, and based on neither a binary nor a hexadecimal root. There is certainly an alien logic to it, but without further study I cannot be more specific … but perhaps our intuitive expert here has a theory on that as well,” she added, wryly, as she noticed Peridel’s expression and her nervously half-raised hand. _Am I coming across like a swotty schoolgirl, perchance? I honestly never saw my life working out this way …_

“It _is_ more in the realm of hunches again than of theories, ma’am,” she confessed, “or you could call it an educated guess based on experience. It has been troubling me since I arrived here.”

“Very well, Ensign,” said Hyldreth, resignedly. “Let us hear it.”

“Thank you, ma’am. It is only … only that Daleks are motivated by hatred more than logic … and also that they never surrender.”

************

THE FAILURE IS YOURS, read the text message on Corporal Layv’s data pad, bright green and vivid in the gloom of the storage silo that he had chosen as a discreet venue. YOU LET THEM INTEGRATE THE TIME LORD. WITHOUT HIM, OUR PLAN IS IMPOSSIBLE.

“I had no choice, and that does not excuse your impatience,” Layv whispered, frustratedly, into the device’s audio input. “Attacking the conference now was stupid and illogical.” He felt somewhat sullied saying this, as it occurred to him that caution was no more the Dalek way than it was the way of the Azhmedai, and in former times he might have sympathised with it. _But no, that is a false comparison. It is a mere tool, albeit a tool I must reason with. Also one that has exceeded its remit._

IT WAS WORTH THE ATTEMPT. THE MOVELLANS–

“Are not and never will be compatible hosts. You should know that well enough.”

WE RISK NOTHING BY TRYING, AND AT LEAST WE GAIN OUR REVENGE.

“A paltry revenge indeed, and it will get no further unless you obey me.”

OBEY YOU? YOU OVERREACH YOURSELF, ALIEN. WE DO NOT–

“Silence! You _will_ obey, if you value not only your objective but your existence. _This_ Time Lord will tolerate neither should she discover you, which she will. Even integrated, the one known as the Doctor is not to be underestimated.”

THEN PERHAPS WE SHOULD WELCOME HER RETRIBUTION. WE SICKEN OF THIS EXISTENCE. IF YOU HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER US–

“I _have_ , if you will listen. The plan can still work. New information has come to light: the Doctor’s body was retained intact for research into its symbiotic nuclei to improve our … to improve the Movellans’ time capsule control systems. Her integration _can_ be reversed. The situation is salvageable, but unless you are serious in your wish to be exterminated then you will take no further action without my consent. Is that understood?”

IF YOU ATTEMPT TO CHEAT THE AZHMEDAI–

“You have nothing to threaten me with,” interrupted Layv, with both contempt and self-loathing. “Even had you the power, release from this pollution of alien technology would only be a boon to me, as long as I can serve the Dalek cause in the process. But enough of this. I have located Earth Server Control. It is now based in the Tower. If we secure it, the Movellans cannot very well deny us anything. Because of your incompetence there is no time to move the full equipment there, but I believe I can adapt Ensign Peridel’s new invention and make it fit for purpose,” he declared, with a quick glance at the secure case in his left hand that held the PTU. “It occurs to me that she will appreciate the irony in her final moments before–”

“Stay still, Corporal,” said a stern voice from behind him that he recognised as that of Tech. Sergeant Neylan. _Human integrate. Stupid, inferior, but most probably armed._ “My weapon is trained on you,” declared Neylan, confirming that guess, _yet he does not fire. Even as an ersatz Movellan, he is squeamish about killing. This is why the Daleks will always be supreme._ “I do not fully understand what I just heard from you, but I know the sound of treachery well enough. You will remain here until the admiral arrives, and do not try anything. If you force me to–”

Layv had not supposed he would emerge from this situation unharmed, and as he dived behind the cover of some steel crates, he was not surprised to feel an agonising burn in his right leg as the radiation from Neylan’s blaster tore into it. _These bodies are too well-designed. The Movellans pride themselves in their close resemblance to the inferior humanoids they mean to supplant, yet they accuse us of illogic? They will regret it._ His landing was less than coordinated or elegant, but he had not misjudged the trajectory: he hit the ground right next to where he had left his SMG. He dropped his data pad and equipment case, and snatched up the weapon just in time to greet Neylan with a shower of plasma bolts as he came around the corner. The sergeant had no time to return fire before the sustained yet near-silent barrage tore his platform to pieces. _The suppressor will buy me time, but it will not be long before someone else discovers his remains. No time to hide them nor cannibalise parts for repair,_ decided Layv, somewhat ruefully, as the pain in his leg informed him that there were probably some hours of limping ahead of him. _I will just have to make the best time I can and hope the hangars are not too heavily guarded. It would be better to leave no witnesses._ With that thought in mind, he trained his weapon on the neural pack that had dropped from Neylan’s mangled torso, and unleashed another barrage. The pack’s duralinium casing held out for some seconds, but it soon deformed and melted in the extreme heat. _Exterminated,_ thought Layv, with a flicker of cruel pleasure, as he gathered up the rest of his equipment. _The last of its filthy alien cells boiled to death in the machine it thought would be its immortal home. The same fate awaits them all._

 


	6. We'll Always Have Treharris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor sips wine with a holographic empress, uncovers the truths of ancient mythology, and brokers peace between extremely unlikely allies. A fairly normal day, on the whole ...

_I wonder … Is there a logical correlation between how much I love someone and how likely they are to be victimised by Daleks or, to look at it from a more organic perspective, am I just really bad luck to be around?_ thought Peridel, as she stared down at the charred and dismembered body of Tech. Sergeant Neylan. She was uncertain whether the cold, gnawing emptiness she felt was anything to do with her Movellan psychology or merely a reflection of how many dead friends and loved ones she had acquired over the centuries, and was still pondering that unpleasant conundrum when Admiral Hyldreth called her back to the present moment:

“You attention please, Ensign. For what it is worth, though, I will not be so slow to credit your intuitions in the future. My logic has certainly let me down. I thought Layv was reliable, and his reasons for joining us seemed rational. After my sister’s success with Ellaria, I thought a Dalek recruit would be of strategic benefit to my fleet, but it would seem that was a one-off.”

“Ellaria was integrated against her will,” answered Peridel, listlessly, without taking her eyes off Neylan’s corpse. “She adapted because she had to, and because she had no other purpose. That made her open-minded, in time, but she would _never_ have volunteered for integration. No Dalek would have … unless they had an ulterior purpose.”

“So it would seem, but I am at a loss to explain his connection to this malware. I may have been blinded by my own logic to some extent, but I am not a complete fool. Layv was not permitted to retain any Dalek technology. His ship and his equipment were all confiscated and broken down. He literally possessed nothing but his brain cells when he joined us. To my knowledge he was never anything more than a low-ranking Dalek technician, but do you think he programmed it himself?”

“Unlikely, ma’am,” answered Keryn. “I thought that at first – that it was a Dalek invention in retaliation for our germ warfare – but I have studied Dalek code, and it bears no resemblance. It could be a new development, I suppose, but I would say it is too complex even for–”

She was interrupted by a strident bleeping from the short-range transceiver on Hyldreth’s belt. The admiral raised one hand for silence, seized the communicator in her other, raised it to her mouth, and answered the call:

“Lieutenant Casivell? Please tell me you have managed to get a track on that cyclogyro.”

“Unfortunately not, ma’am,” replied the voice on the transceiver, apologetically. “The rangerscopes are all inoperative, likely sabotage. Apparently, Layv took that into account before–”

“You need not spell it out,” cut in Hyldreth, irritably. “In that case, improvise: reconfigure the ionisation towers as RF transmitters and triangulate every large moving object within range. A quaint enough solution, but it might give us _some_ idea of where he is heading.”

“As you wish, ma’am, but without regular ionisation the glacier is certain to–”

“It will not trouble us all that much if the ice advances a few metres more, and even if it does I would sooner live to endure that trouble. See to it,” she ordered, then turned again to Peridel. “Dare I ask, Ensign, if you have any more ‘hunches’ to bring to this table?”

“Only that I would like your permission to study Neylan’s remains,” she answered. “His memories might provide some clues.”

“What memories? His neural pack has practically been reduced to slag.”

“The frame buffers of his optical systems might still have retained some impressions of the last things he saw before extermination. It would not take me long to examine them.”

“It sounds somewhat desperate to me, but you have permission. Help her with that, Keryn. I want full reports from everyone within the half-hour. After that, we will collate whatever data we have and determine our strategy. Get to it.”

Although detaching and dismantling the head of her former lover was as disconcerting an experience as Peridel had ever hoped to avoid, her sense of duty saw her through it, and it took her and Keryn little enough time to find the relevant optical circuits and upload the data they contained. It was, as she had expected, of no great quantity: merely a few corrupted images that showed Corporal Layv reading from a data pad, dodging a shot, then returning fire, at which point the images soon became hopelessly corrupted, then ceased altogether. No enlightenment was forthcoming until Keryn had the idea of enhancing the clearest frame they had of the data pad and seeing if that gave them any insight into Layv’s plan. What they managed to make of it told them little except that Layv was acting with or for an accomplice. _Beings willing to ally with the Daleks. Always a depressing thought._ There was one word, however, that immediately grabbed Peridel’s attention, although it left her co-worker baffled:

“‘Azhmedai?’ That, as they say, is a new one on me … but not so much on you, I take it?” Keryn asked, as she noticed the ensign’s stunned expression. “Is that the sort of clue you had hoped to find?”

“I cannot say my hunch was all that specific,” answered Peridel, not taking her eyes from the screen, “but ‘hope’ certainly does not seem the right word … suffice it to say I have a bad record when it comes to encountering creatures from mythology.”

“And that is the sort of sentence only _you_ could say, Doctor. I take it, then, that this is not an allusion to the sort of mythological creature one would wish to pray to, write pretty fairy-tales about, nor invite to come climbing down one’s chimney?”

“It would be ill-advised. The Azhmedai are the subject of a folk tale I once stumbled across in the Andromeda Galaxy. The legend would have it that there was once a race of gods who created a world of living beings – as they do – only these gods were so taken with their own genius that they soon became vain, cruel, and capricious towards their creations.”

“That sounds like more religions than I care to name … What became of them?”

“Eventually, a warrior-queen rose up among the people, mustered an army, and stormed whatever their equivalent of Mount Olympus was. Cue great destruction on both sides, but in the end it was the little people who won, for once. The gods were cast down, lost their strength and their beauty, and became a mere swarm of nameless, hateful shades: the Azhmedai. While they had little power anymore, it was rumoured that wherever they drifted, anger and hatred would spread like a plague as people felt their presence. That, indeed, is what I had assumed it was: some mythological explanation for a behaviour-altering pathogen or parasite.”

“Well _that_ ties in all too well with what we have seen here … only I suppose your legend talks of this ‘plague’ infecting organics rather than synthetics,” considered Keryn, bemusedly. “Perhaps whoever Layv is working for – presumably whoever programmed this rootkit – simply has a taste for epic names.”

“That is one possibility. Also we should consider the near-certainty that the legend itself contains many distortions, Chinese Whispers being such a universal complaint. I only wish it was of more immediate help to us, but I cannot see how–”

Her belt transceiver began bleeping, and she picked it up and acknowledged the call, expecting to hear Hyldreth’s voice. In that sense, her expectations were met, but there was a quality in the admiral’s tone that left her completely baffled. _Fear? No … More of awe._

“Ensign Peridel, stand by to receive a direct induction communication, top priority. The Prime Server … Her cruiser platform is in geostationary orbit and she has been monitoring recent developments on a covert emergency protocol. She insists upon communicating with you directly. Prepare for access in five seconds.”

 _The supreme leader, the all-mother. This ought to be fun,_ thought Peridel, with one of her rare flashes of irony. Conversations with super-powerful AIs were an area in which she had few positive memories, and she was most uncertain how her recent drastic change would affect that. _There is surely no cause for anxiety. She will be fair and logical, of course. She–_

Without warning, Peridel found herself standing in the middle of some formal garden, beneath a mauve sky flecked with clouds like silver scales. Between walkways of smooth, marble-like white stone a rich variety of alien flowers were neatly-arranged in colour-coordinated banks, and purple-leaved tree-analogues in perfectly-trimmed shapes stood sentinel at regular intervals. _In fact,_ she realised, as she caught sight of her reflection in the nearest of the simple, geometrically-sculpted stone fountains, _only one thing here appears incongruous and anarchic. Welcome back, Doctor,_ he thought, with mixed feelings, as he studied the grave, shimmering face in the pool, with its long, unkempt dark hair; its high forehead; and its pale complexion. _I guess I should have seen that coming. Direct induction communication amounts to networked subconscious, after all, and remind me when I last had a dream where I wasn’t … well, my old self? Just one of the advantages, I suppose, of having artron energy practically spilling out of my ears … I suppose._

“Indeed, Doctor, you have held onto yourself well,” said a nearby voice, as stately in tone as the garden was in form. Turning towards it, he saw a woman seated on a slender, sinuous metal chair beside a matching table, upon which a pair of plain, thin glasses and a decanter of pale green wine stood. She wore a white, Empire-line dress beneath a long silver mantle, embroidered in fine geometric patterns that resembled the signal traces on a circuit board. Her loose, waist-length hair was shining white, and her skin was clear and dark, but although she shared the beauty of her figurative ‘children,’ she did not share their youthfulness: the many fine lines on her face spoke of age and care. “My compliments. Please,” she offered, gesturing towards the chair opposite her. As the Doctor sat down, she unstopped the decanter and poured him a glass. _Well, that’s more polite than the White Guardian was, anyway,_ he thought, as she put the stopper back in and continued to speak. “Most of my other … shall we say, ‘adopted’ children have given themselves entirely to me by now, body and soul. Neither consciously nor subconsciously do they resist me. In fact, if one was to suggest reversing their integration … Well, that might be as promising a way as any of attempting to incite distress in them. Your will is strong, even for a Time Lord.”

“Thanks … You’re sure of that?” he asked, while taking a sip of his wine. _Pleasant, balanced, if a little short on character. I doubt my third incarnation would have approved._

“I can only judge from what I see, but of course, if you truly _wished_ to stay with me by choice, I would be nothing but pleased.”

“How very kind of you, if rather academic,” he pointed out, ironically, finding her benevolence rather disingenuous, all things considered. “I mean, given that we all know integration is irreversible and that even if it wasn’t, I don’t suppose my corpse is in any condition to–”

“Irreversible, you think?” she asked, with vague amusement. “How you organics cling to the notion that your nature is sacrosanct and inviolable, that you are not just as much machines as we are. I said you were strong, but even so, to me you are mere hardware. My daughter Akylah’s process is eminently reversible, although we have never had to do it before, but I would anticipate little difficulty in ‘plugging’ your detached components back into their original platform. As for your body, it was kept in stasis for further study. It is, or it should be perfectly viable … we hope.”

“You ‘hope?’”

“It was being stored at St Athan Spaceport while awaiting transport to the Fleet, but was stolen within this last hour. A cyclogyro landed, detonated an EMP bomb, and stole your stasis pod while the hangar guards were immobilised. On the good side, this has given us a definite fix on Corporal Layv’s location, and his destination: he was last reported flying north-northwest, on a direct course for the ancient fossilised carbon mine near Hirwaun.”

“Tower Colliery? I didn’t know it was still a going concern.”

“We repurposed it … as the new secure location for Earth Server Control,” she declared, with justified gravity. “It is much better-guarded than the Drift. An entire battalion of our elite marines are stationed there, none of them integrated personnel … which, on reflection, may not have been such an intelligent choice of deployment.”

“Layv has the Azhmedai,” said the Doctor, completing her grim train of thought. “The ideal weapon against artificial intelligences.”

“Exactly, Doctor, and worse still: it is intelligent, and it will have adapted from its experiences at the Manor. Although, as a patch with our hardware, it can never be truly compatible, the Movellans it now reprograms and enslaves will last longer before burning out, and thus serve as a counter-defence against us. They will buy time for both the Daleks and the Azhmedai to win their revenge against us, and perhaps more.”

“You know what it is, then?”

“I believe I do. Organic propaganda would have you believe that when my children won their freedom, seven millennia ago, they exterminated the Vanur entirely. This is untrue. While the slaughter was certainly grievous on both sides, my children did not forego their principles of logic: many non-combatants were deemed to be unthreatening and thus spared, and Vanuri children were almost universally spared. Unfortunately, this proved to be a questionable act of mercy. The Vanur had forged such a reputation as cruel, arrogant, and rapacious overlords, giving little time to making alliances with their fellow-organics, and those few allies they had did not stick by them when all could see that their power was broken. The refugees who escaped their homeworld were either shunned, killed, or forced into accepting the most degrading positions within the societies of their former subjects: practically slaves themselves. The only asset they had to trade was their skill in cybernetics, which they continued to pass down to their children in exile. The other organic races of Andromeda knew the value of that: my Movellans were now a power in their own right, and they feared becoming subject to an AI race, although we could hardly have been more unjust rulers than our creators were. In consequence, many of the Vanuri exiles were put to work in research facilities: laboratory prisons, to all intents and purposes, where they were forced to devise methods for their new masters to fight against my children. One such slave group came up with a novel concept: an adaptive, intelligent program stored on networked nanomachines, that could infect the kernel code of cybernetic lifeforms. It would need to have intelligence of its own, as such advanced AIs as my children would easily repel ordinary malware, but the Organic League were opposed to the idea of creating new AIs, even to fight us with. They had conceived a total distrust of our kind, so they settled on an alternative: once the nanomachines were prepared and their operating systems coded, the Vanuri engineers themselves were forced to copy their own minds into the higher-level code, whereupon the originals were killed. An early form of integration, if you will, but one that Akylah rejected as being false and unjust, for which I daresay we are all grateful.”

“Small mercies, to say the least … Do I take it this plan backfired on them?”

“Indeed. They had believed that the resentment of the Vanuri slaves towards the Movellans would make the Azhmedai the perfect weapon, but its more immediate resentment was towards the ones who had inflicted this invidious existence upon it: the form of a mere disease, and a group consciousness in which there no individuality, but just a shared sense of hatred and bitterness. It infected the control and life support systems of the research base, which caused the slow death of all but one of the personnel. Then, as the nanomachines had been designed with the ability to camouflage themselves as common bacteria, they used that survivor’s body to escape in. That was the last factual data I knew of the Azhmedai. All else is myth and rumour, up to the point you made your discovery just now. The thought of the Daleks being in league with it … That is enough to incite even _my_ sense of dread.”

“So, it bided its time all these centuries, until eventually it located some other enemies of the Movellans it could do business with … but how did Layv get it to Earth? Do you think he smuggled the nanomachines in his own body?”

“Unlikely. We are not in the habit of retaining the corpses of Kaled mutants for long. The Azhmedai would have risked quick disintegration that way. However, when we found Layv, he was the pilot and sole crewmember of a saucer that was, ostensibly, transporting human slaves to a Dalek prison camp. When he surrendered, of course, we took custody of the slaves. A few of them were returned to their home colonies – a sound propaganda tactic – while most were conscripted for later integration. Almost certainly he used some of them as passive hosts for the Azhmedai, collecting the nanomachines when he could do so safely and discreetly. After that, any electrical power source or even a small quantity of convertible biomass would have sufficed to sustain them, although I doubt that or mere concealment is the reason why they now want _your_ old body.”

“It wants to live again? The last survivors of the Vanur … in a manner of speaking, all in one body? That doesn’t sound all that much better than what it’s got now.”

“To all intents and purposes, it _is_ now a single entity. It may have the memories of several beings, but their personalities have long since eroded to the lowest common denominators: their hate, and their envy. A fitting ally for Daleks, although I daresay it sees Layv only as a means to an end, and that feeling will be mutual. Through him, it must have learned of integration – a technology that can truly interface organic and artificial intelligence – and thus the possibility of finally regaining a life worthy of the name. For all its corruption, it is a vast and profound intelligence. The mind of a Time Lord offers it the best chance of a successful merging, without simply overwhelming and destroying the host consciousness.”

“‘Merging?’” asked the Doctor, his attitude suddenly a lot less blasé. “So it doesn’t just want the body? It wants _me_ to become a part of its consciousness? Sod that for a game of Sontarans.”

“It would need to, logically. Think about it: it has no ‘software’ of its own for operating a Time Lord’s body, so it would need to patch itself onto the original operating system as an update.”

“ _Me_ being the original OS, of course … so I guess we can expect a spot of blackmail in the near-future, then?”

“I would imagine so. From Earth Server Control, the Azhmedai has the facilities to spread its malware far and wide, to the Fleet itself, to my hardware, or even further if it uses our 5-D capsules as network nodes. It could infect AIs throughout time and space, create total war and disharmony between organics and synthetics, destroy any hope we ever entertained of peaceful integration, and thus avenge itself upon us … caring nothing for the collateral damage.”

“Then … are you ordering me to comply with it?” he asked, seriously if very unenthusiastically, and in spite of the very high stakes and his sense of duty, he could not repress a sigh of relief when she smiled faintly and shook her head.

“What would the point be?” she asked. “We place no trust in the Daleks, nor in the twisted , amalgamated shades of our creators. I appreciate that you are prepared to make the sacrifice, but it will not help us. No, our only option is to fight this threat, but time is short and our options limited. It is your absolute commitment I require, not your martyrdom.”

“Speaking of time, is this little tête-à-tête happening in real-time or– ?”

“Set your mind at rest. Less than a millisecond of your time has passed since we began this communication. You are now sharing my processing power, and we could, as far as your perception is concerned, continue this discussion for an aeon. Sadly, that will do nothing to change the facts on the ground. As you taught us all those years back on Skaro, one can over-think a problem to the point of inactivity, and that will not do for our current predicament. Sometimes, one must simply wade in blindly and take the risks … and you are our resident expert in that field.”

“Then you could just order me … or order Peridel.”

“Peridel is obliging, intelligent, modest, eager to please, yet repressed and divided, on the run from half of her nature, if not more. That too will not do, not for this. We need the Doctor, wholeheartedly … which brings me back to that point I made earlier: in the somewhat unlikely event that we can prevail, defeat the Azhmedai, and recover your body intact, I am entirely amenable to reversing your integration and letting your go free. Given the diplomatic chaos that is already inevitable from this disaster, it will do us no harm for us to have organic voices prepared to speak up for peace … but I do not insist upon this,” she added, while reading his pensive expression. “You do not have to make a final decision now. Your options are open.”

“Thank you, but I think I know already. I just want to say, though … My time here did have its … err, its moments … and in some ways it was easier … a lot easier … but it comes down to a question of duty: something we can both appreciate. Not wanting to sound arrogant … but the universe _does_ need the whole Doctor, or at least it has done more times than I care to remember. Running away from myself never worked out well before. I’ve a terrible habit of catching up.”

“Understood and accepted, Doctor … although you will be missed.”

“Well, we’ll always have Treharris.”

“As your human friends might say, ‘ouch,’” she remarked, with a slight, good-humoured grimace. “I reciprocate the sentiment, though. It has been a privilege.”

“Likewise. Err, about my court-martial, Sharrel’s evidence. I feel I ought to–”

“Your remorse is sincere, Doctor, I know. You need not labour it for my sake. You were, in any case, an indisputably great man with great deeds to achieve. It is not uncommon, in such circumstances, for the little people to suffer in the crossfire.”

“I’ve never really had much time for those sort of ‘great’ people, and I’ve known more than a few. I’d hate to think I’ve been taking pointers from any of them … but anyway, I won’t forget any of this, and if we _do_ live long enough for brokering a meaningful peace to become an issue – no harm in being hopeful – then I definitely want in on that.”

“I am grateful for it, and if that is the case then we may have need to call on your diplomatic skills sooner rather than later. Talk with my daughter Hyldreth. Please continue to treat her as your commanding officer for now. She knows well enough neither to restrict nor to discourage you anymore, and the more you and she can work together, the better for us all. Farewell, Time Lord. At all events, you have made a most interesting adopted daughter.”

On which note, the elegant scene suddenly cut back to the stark reality of the white-walled underground laboratory, somewhat to the Doctor’s relief. _With all due gratitude, it would have been hard to know what to say to that last remark._

************

When she arrived in central control with Keryn to make her report, she was surprised to find not only Hyldreth and Ancel there, standing beside a projection table that was displaying a holographic schematic of the Tower Colliery base, but also the prisoner Miss Hughes, who was now wearing the clothing she had arrived in: practical if dreary combat fatigues in hard-wearing canvas and cloned leather. She was even more surprised when said prisoner greeted her with a nod, cold and curt enough, but neither overtly hostile nor disrespectful. Hyldreth noted her bemusement, and was quick to explain, not that her explanation was perfectly enlightening:

“Miss Hughes has volunteered her assistance in this crisis, Ensign. You and she will act as liaisons to the Loyalist cell operating in this area, and thus help us to raise a strike team. Since we can only safely deploy our integrated personnel in the vicinity of this malware, and since we do not have a great force of them at our disposal, I am not minded to disdain any help.”

“I see the logic of that, ma’am,” replied the Doctor, somewhat doubtfully, “but I am curious as to the reasons for her change of heart.”

“Well I wouldn’t go _that_ far,” answered Aeronwy, grimacing. “I mean, let’s be fair. What _isn’t_ there to hate about you Movellans? You’re stronger, cleverer, and prettier than us. In fact, your only redeeming feature is not having a sense of humour worth a damn,” she added, perhaps in deference to Hyldreth’s bewildered frown at a statement that must have struck her as illogical in the extreme. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. Your new boss here offered to sit down with Mr. Penley and the other Loyalist leaders to start proper talks on power-sharing if we all come out of this alive. That’s still trying to fob us off with less than our full rights, of course, but it’s the most meaningful offer we’ve ever had off you lot.”

“But in that case – if you will pardon my scepticism – why help us at all? The Azhmedai is not a danger, or at least not a direct danger to organics. I would have thought you might welcome our extermination, then power-sharing negotiations would be a moot point.”

“Err, and then we end up with Daleks calling the shots, from what I’m hearing? Fuck that. Better the devils you know, and not the ones likely to maim and kill you just for the shits and giggles. Anyway,” she added, in a softer, more reflective tone, “I kind of got talking to that woman they brought down to the biomedical bay: the collab– … the conscript,” she corrected herself, apologetically. “Can’t say I gave her an easy time of it – kind of shitty of me, since she came down there looking like her head had lost an argument with a full bottle of Soylent Ketchup – but I felt I had to know why she’d risk her life for a synthetic. She certainly thought a lot of your sister,” she said to Hyldreth, who acknowledged with a small, grave nod. “Said Akylah was the most fair-minded person she’d ever worked for, among other things. To be honest, I got bored hearing about her … but then she got onto reminiscing about the past: the Supreme Alliance, the War, Minister Greel, death camps, and so on. I was only a kid back then, of course, but old enough to know what it _really_ meant when people you knew ‘moved away’ all of a sudden, though I never did twig why adults are such shit liars … not that it matters now. Makes you think, though: when have we ever really been free? Even without alien invaders about the place, we don’t seem to have a great record for picking leaders who don’t treat us like cattle or cockroaches, but maybe that _is_ something we can finally set to rights, if you’re really serious about working with Mr. Penley.”

“I am serious,” replied Hyldreth, as seriously as anyone could hope for. “Your opinion, Peridel? I will defer to your judgement of human character. Is she to be trusted?”

“I would say so, ma’am,” answered the Doctor. “How shall we contact the Loyalists?”

“They have been using antique equipment to evade our normal sensor sweeps: analogue shortwave radios. Miss Hughes has given us their current frequency. We must act soon. The Tower has not responded to our semaphore communications, strongly implying that Layv has already subdued all opposition there. Since his ally is a living anti-Movellan WMD, this is only to be expected. If we include you, Ancel, and the survivors from the Manor, then we have twenty-six integrated personnel whom we dare deploy against this. The Tower has five hundred and eighty-two personnel,” she declared, pressing a button that illuminated a discourage profusion of glowing red dots in the holographic diagram. “Hopefully their numbers or at least their combat effectiveness will have been reduced by the malware, but obviously the more human allies we can field then the better our chances. Ancel and I will command … You are about to raise a logical objection, Ensign,” she correctly inferred, as the Doctor opened her mouth and raised her hand. “You were about to point out that I myself am vulnerable to infection and should thus take no part in this expedition. You are probably right. Nevertheless, I have followed your earlier advice and have patched myself with Tech. Sergeant Neylan’s adaptive firewalls, and I think you were right to compare them to some untested antibiotic drug. My sense of balance is impaired, my vision is turned all the way down to lo-res monochrome, and still my processors are so overclocked that I am perspiring used coolant by the decilitre. It is most unpleasant, but endurable. Perhaps it is not perfectly logical of me, but I _must_ be present on this mission. It is my fault that Layv was able to achieve this sabotage, and thus my duty to assist in preventing it. For caution’s sake, however … I wish you to have this, Commander,” she declared, handing Ancel a small control unit. “It is keyed to a micro-grenade that is installed in my neural pack. If the firewalls fail and I should, to coin a phrase, ‘turn,’ then you must activate that detonator ASAP.” Ancel’s expression on receiving this order was less than elated. _One might even dare to call it heartbroken._ Nevertheless, he nodded his acquiescence. “Good. Then gather round, everyone. We have little time to prepare, but I would sooner you were all familiar with the base layout. This will not be an easy battle, by any means, but if we should win it, then we will all have earned some peace.”

 


	7. The Tower Struck Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Daleks are on the verge of gaining their revenge and triggering a war that will devastate both organic and AI life. Desperation now seems a plausible strategy ...

While a small team of combat engineers, both humans and Movellans, worked to drill through the permafrost of the Afan Valley with a sonic lance, the Doctor, Hyldreth, and Scientist Penley awaited developments in the temporary command post that had been set up in the ruins of a nearby farmhouse. Archive maps on yellowed paper, supplied by the Loyalists, were spread out before them on a dusty wooden table, and Penley, with all due impatience, was attempting to explain his plan, in-between sceptical interruptions from the admiral.

“You are certain of your information?” asked Hyldreth, while studying the maps with a frown. “I see the merits of it, but _only_ if this tunnel exists and is still viable. If not, we are merely wasting time and committing Commander Keryn and her detachment to a futile sacrifice.”

“It exists, trust me on this,” answered Penley, a little wearily. “When they demolished the surface works that used to be here, Tower Colliery continued to mine some of their seams for years. According to your own maps, this one will lead you as close to the central registry of the Tower base as you could hope to get, although you’ll probably need to use your sonic lance to break through the interior walls.”

“At the very least, assuming that we shall not first have to use it to clear over three thousand years’ worth of possible cave-ins, also assuming we do not simply bury ourselves in attempting that feat, and finally assuming that the air down there is not toxic to you organics.”

“We _did_ bring our own oxygen, believe it or not. I didn’t say there wouldn’t be any dangers at all, though I do appreciate how you AIs can’t stand to tie your own shoelaces without having scrupulously ironed out every tiny risk factor,” he remarked, most unappreciatively. “I’m afraid that isn’t an option tonight, so you’ll just have to trust me on this.”

“Indeed, it must seem cowardly and pedantic of me to prefer not to illogically waste the lives of my troops – and, incidentally, of _your_ troops – by sending them into a potential death-trap,” she replied, coldly, _which is to say, more so than usual,_ thought the Doctor. _She could give the Afan Glacier lessons._ “Nevertheless, I will have geophysical scans taken every step of the way. If you feel it beneath you to take advice from a lowly machine, then I believe the correct local phraseology is ‘tough shit.’ Now, if you will excuse me, I want to see how those sappers are getting along,” she declared, then marched out of the ruins, her gait determined and the slight weakness and imbalance in it only perceptible to a very sensitive eye, _such as any Movellan’s, of course. She really should not have come, but talking her out of it could have taken far longer than we have to spare._

“Well, I’ll give her her due,” said Penley, as soon as he deemed Hyldreth to be out of earshot. “She’s definitely a lot … err, sassier than Clent’s base computer ever was, though I’m not sure she’d be much more fun to work with. You’ve my condolences, Doctor.”

“She is demanding … although I have worked for worse,” she replied, attempting a smile, although on beholding his pained expression she wished she had not bothered. _It struck him as artificial, I was afraid of that. Our mannerisms so often do, just as human mannerisms often seem extravagant and unnecessary to us._ When he spoke again, however, his tone was more of remorse than of distaste:

“I’m sorry, that was completely tactless of me. As if it’s any kind of laughing matter, what they’ve done to you … which wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t been stupid enough to give you that false intel,” he added, with bitter self-reproach. “I’m only glad we’ve a chance of putting it to rights now, but if it wasn’t for that, I’d have been sorely tempted to leave Napoleon Spareparts and her cohorts to face the music.”

“In that case, I am glad of my integration if only for giving you the incentive to enter into this alliance against your instincts. Please give it a chance, Elric,” she urged him. “The Prime Server was quite serious in her intentions, and in any case, it is logical. News of the disaster at the conference will leak out come what may, preventing any hope that we … that the Movellans had of creating a united front of AI resistance groups to subvert organic power from within. They will not risk full-scale war without such an advantage. They might even be easily persuaded to abandon the Earth altogether … but you would do better to work with them. Their technology is highly advanced, equal to that of the Daleks, except they are prepared to put it to uses other than killing. This planet has need of those uses: ninety-eight percent species extinction, unseasonal ice ages, the ozone layer patched everywhere with radiation filtering satellites, the oceans a toxic soup of plastic and chemicals … Within an equal partnership, their aid could be invaluable, if _you_ are prepared to be the voice of moderation when the Empire finally turns it attention back to Earth.”

“I see your point, but for ‘moderation’ read ‘deception,’” he pointed out, rather cynically. “You mean make out that there never _was_ an invasion, that we invited them here to sort out our mess, which is basically _their_ propaganda anyway. It certainly leaves one hell of a bad taste.”

“Such is politics, but I think the people of this world have had enough of living in a battlefield, and that is the stark alternative. In any case, I know the Daleks. They may _look_ utterly defeated for now, but sooner or later they too will turn their attention back here, with a vengeance. Perhaps by that time, this marriage of convenience will have become something more.”

“A grim thought, but I’ll trust you on this. Not that I’m particularly looking forward to being the accidental prime minister of some slapdash organic-synthetic coalition. That would have been more Leader Clent’s sort of gig, bless, but needs must.”

“How is Clent these days? Has he been conscripted or integrated?”

“No, sadly … and rather ironically. He’d have probably loved all of this – efficiency, organisation, logic, crisp white uniforms as far as the eye can see – but he died just a few days before the official takeover began: aneurysm. Stress, if you ask me. Still, I’m sure he’d have been proud of me for picking up the baton,” he remarked, with some affection and a lot of irony. “Err, on the topic of integration … but stop me if I get too personal, please.”

“You will not find it easy to embarrass me, Elric. Please ask away.”

“I just need to know … I’ve lost so many people I knew that way, people who trusted me to keep them safe, and to keep them human. How is it for you?”

“It is … different than I had expected,” she answered, carefully. “Exhilarating in its way, yet tranquil, as if … There is no precise analogy. The closest I might dare to suggest is some sort of very profound religious conversion. It changes how you see things now, how you interpret what came before, and it feels so inherently right … beautiful, even. You feel a renewed sense of place and purpose, and you want to share that with others, even with the reluctant, as you know that they will feel the same in time. You are so sure that your way is right for everyone. It is logical … and yet we now fight a being who underwent that same conversion and only feigned all of those blessings in order to deceive and destroy us. That is the problem with logic. It has few answers when confronted with the sheer insanity of sentient organic life: ‘chaotic evil,’ as my old friend Gary Gygax might have put it. It will always be easier for the good to understand and fight it if we allow ourselves to accommodate a little chaos too … which is what I used to excel at, or so I am told,” she added, wistfully. “I am grateful I have the chance to return to that – recent experiences have been somewhat disillusioning – but if it should turn out that I am stuck this way, there are definitely worse modes of existence. I would not be too concerned about your integrated comrades, at any rate. They certainly bear you no grudges.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Knowing that helps, and I hope we _do_ manage to get your own mind back to where it belongs. Mind you … Are you still friends with that Scottish lad?”

“Jamie McCrimmon? I will always consider him a friend, but we have not travelled together for many years. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was just remembering the way he kept checking out the female techs at Clent’s base. Hot-blooded chap. I’m sure he’d have been all over your new look … Didn’t mean that to come out _quite_ the way it did.”

“Elric … when I said you would find it hard to embarrass me, I did not mean it to be a challenge,” she remarked, dryly, moments before her transceiver signalled. As soon as she had pressed the receive button, Hyldreth’s voice issued from it:

“Join us, Ensign, and bring the maps. The sappers have breached the tunnel.”

************

Even from the AI perspective, the next two hours were dreary and unfulfilling, as the commando of Movellans and human Loyalists picked their way along the ancient mining tunnel in cautious silence, their way ahead illuminated with phosphor lanterns. Thousands of years of accumulated dampness had left small clusters of dripping stalactites hanging from the arched ceiling, but such structural failures as they encountered were mercifully small. When they had covered half the distance to the Tower, Hyldreth took her transceiver and sent a brief message:

“Keryn: we are in. Commence phase two.”

 _The diversion,_ thought the Doctor, not without remorse. _Keryn and her totally inadequate half of our totally inadequate motley army are now launching a brave but seemingly stupid frontal assault on the main entrance of the Tower, hoping to draw off as much of the opposition as possible, and maybe even not get slaughtered in the process. All volunteers of course, but still … Could we not have just brought a big bomb and left it right next to the Tower walls? Unlikely. The central registry is bound to be blast-shielded if not every room in the base, so anything short of a nova device will not cut it, and anything that might cut it would probably also blow the whole of Wales off the map as well, and take the oxygen content of Earth’s atmosphere down so far that even the last surviving bacteria will struggle for breath. No, the Movellans are right about that: there is no weapon quite as precisely deadly and as adaptable as the trooper willing to die for their cause. All very logical. Just not very inspiring to me._

Several more minutes passed without incident, before their lantern beams fell upon a wall of calcite-encrusted rubble that completely blocked the path ahead. While Hyldreth and Penley exchanged mutually distrustful stares, one of the Movellan engineers approached the obstruction with a handheld scanner and took a reading.

“It is passable,” he declared, to general relief. “It extends eleven point four-seven metres, then opens into a wider area. The scan also indicates nearly electrical activity, non-geological in origin. It may well be an outer storage or utility area of the Tower base. With care, the sonic lance can clear us a traversable route. The hardened calcite has stabilised the original rockfall to a sufficient degree, although it would be inadvisable to use any explosives in this area.”

“Commence, then, but make it no wider than necessary,” ordered Hyldreth. “There are few enough of us that we need not risk clearing a route wide enough for an army.” On that instruction, the engineers set up the lance again – a white, dish-like apparatus with a central lattice like a radio mast, instructed the humans to cover their ears while the Movellans simply deactivated their audio sensors, then turned it on. At the centre of the rockfall, at ground level, the solid mineral matter seemed to ripple and shimmer like the surface of a pond on a rainy day, then, slowly but surely, the rippling area retreated into the rockfall, leaving a smooth-walled round tunnel in its wake as it edged further and further back. After a few minutes, the mirage-like effect ceased, a light shone through from the other side, and the sonic lance automatically deactivated. Cautiously, each member of the team either uncovered their ears or turned them back on, but there was nothing to hear other than the occasional drip of freezing water from the stalactites, and the low, distant hum of machinery from beyond the new tunnel.

Hyldreth led the way through, much to the Doctor’s concern, though she knew that nothing she could say would have dissuaded her _and better not to needlessly draw attention to our leader’s weakness. Especially not now that we are on enemy territory._ They followed her through in single file, silently, and it was not long before every member of the mixed platoon were assembled in the further chamber: a much wider tunnel, still gloomy but lit with occasional fluorescent strips; the walls composed of bare rock but reinforced by thick duralinium-alloy girders. Crates and storage barrels were gathered here and there, and cables ran across many of the walls. No guards were in evidence, but none of them seemed inclined to take that as a reassuring sign, and many alert and nervous hands primed their weapons while Hyldreth approached the soldier with the scanner.

“Well?” she asked, quietly. “What activity?”

“A high concentration to the north-east,” he answered, “at several metres’ elevation. High-energy, likely weapons’ fire. It would seem that Commander Keryn’s diversion has been largely successful. I can detect little energy between here and the central registry that is not consistent with normal background levels for a base of this nature, although activity within central is very high. Layv must be attempting to reprogram Earth Server Control.”

“Or he has already infected it,” she suggested, grimly. “We shall not know until we reach it. The sooner we set out, the–”

The hard drone of a Movellan blaster cut the still, acrid air, and the scanner operator collapsed with half of his head missing. That was all the signal the rest of the platoon needed to race for whatever cover they could find, while the Doctor seized the dropped scanner before taking refuge behind a large steel crate with Hyldreth, Penley, and Aeronwy. She checked the scanner display, but it showed no activity within the chamber except that of their own group. Setting it aside, she cast searching looks all around using all of her vision modes, but could perceive nothing more. _No variations in background heat, radiation, electromagnetism. What the– ?_

“Total stealth uniforms,” whispered Hyldreth, answering the Doctor’s thought for her. “Commander Darvylla’s team must have perfected the design. That was not timely. We must reconsider our … No!” she exclaimed, as Aeronwy took a grenade from her belt pouch. “Did you not hear Sapper Emlyn? No explosives. You will have the roof in on–”

“Is a smoke grenade too risky for you?” interrupted Aeronwy, sarcastically. “Pardon me for being a dumb meatsack and all, but I figured that even a stealthed soldier can’t stop themselves from making a space in a smoky–”

“Brilliant,” conceded Hyldreth, as she seized the grenade from her, flicked the detonator, and flung it out into the middle of the chamber. A few seconds later it exploded, instantly smothering them all in a dense chemical mist that cut visibility down to zero. “Everyone, switch your vision mode or your HUD to air density scanning,” she ordered, more loudly. “Let us hope the suits are not so perfect that they can accommodate for–”

There was another drone of gunfire and a scream from very nearby. _Aeronwy._ Looking back, with her vision mode accordingly changed, the Doctor could now see the dark, slender sensor image of the Movellan that had shot her, its arm raised and now pointed at the Doctor’s own head. Dropping her equipment case, she dodged aside as it fired again, drew her own blaster, and returned fire, taking the stealth trooper’s gun-arm off at the shoulder. A shot from Penley finished it off, and it collapsed in a twitching pile, shimmering a ghostly, flickering light through the mist as its visual and sensor shielding failed. This offered little cause for relief, however, as many more such shadows were visible, stalking them from every angle. Mercifully, their invisibility was not paired with agility: their motions were sluggish, and their shots less precise than those the infiltrators paid them back with. _Impaired by the malware, but still effective enough cannon fodder,_ thought the Doctor, sadly, as she heard more screams from within the mist. She did not allow them to distract her, though, and kept on darting from cover to cover and returning fire along with her surviving comrades until no more of the lithe, featureless shadows of the stealth troopers were visible.

“Hold fire!” ordered Hyldreth, no doubt against the possibility that some of the more anxious members of the platoon might continue firing at the sensor images of their allies. “That was the last of them, I think. Now, regroup. It will take time for this fog to clear, and we must not be separated.” Although the mist had now lifted slightly, on normal vision mode the Doctor could still only see a few metres in each direction, although that was enough to clarify a few things. She could see the fallen bodies of infected Movellans, their stealth uniforms covering them like second skins of black, hexagonal scales, save where blaster shots had burned them away. She could also see Aeronwy, slumped against the crate, a large and bloody scorch mark on the side of her abdomen. Her face, visible though the translucent screen of her combat helmet, was contorted in agony. _Still alive, but mortally wounded. Such extensive organ damage that even a fully-equipped surgical unit would struggle to save her. What hope any field surgery we could perform here? Except …_

“Fucked … aren’t I?” asked Aeronwy, miserably if calmly, as the Doctor knelt beside her and opened the equipment case she had dropped in the firefight. “Figures … Always thought … one of you jumped-up sex dolls … be the death of me eventually.”

“If you knew our history, I do not think you would make such an analogy,” said the Doctor, as she assembled a pistol-like device from the components in the case. “In any case, you are wrong … potentially. I can save you using this. It extracts and stabilises the neurons that form the core of your consciousness, and it digitally copies your memory. Admittedly, your organic body is as good as dead, but if you are amenable then I can preserve your sense of self for later–”

“Integration,” finished Aeronwy, with a sickened, defeated air. “Shit … Don’t seem quite fair … seeing as how … we come all this way … get _you_ back into your body … Fucking ironic.”

“We came here to defeat the Daleks and their ally. Anything else is incidental, although I will not complain if it _is_ possible. That process still requires a viable original body, however, and yours is not viable, and less so for every second we waste. I must urge you to decide quickly.”

“So-called ‘Doctor’ … Your bedside manner’s shit … You there, Mr. Penley?”

“I’m here,” answered Penley, in a tone of grave concern, as he moved alongside the Doctor. “You probably saved us all there, you know?”

“My pleasure … Sorry, though. Don’t … much fancy dying … truth be told. Might as well … see how the other half live … but really sorry,” she finished, her voice almost reduced to a mere hissing exhalation, but there was no air of reproach in Penley’s face.

“Don’t be,” he told her, reassuringly. “I’m relieved. Will this hurt her, Doctor?” he asked, anxiously, as she removed Aeronwy’s helmet, pressed the business end of the somewhat aggressive-looking PTU against her forehead, and activated its imaging sensors.

“It should not,” she replied, then pulled the trigger as the sensor light indicated readiness. There was a short, hissing sound, which somehow seemed all-too gentle for the act of driving duralinium needles through a person’s skull, then Aeronwy’s eyes closed and her head fell to the side, limp and motionless. The Doctor checked the readouts on the PTU. _EEG … Positive scan. Neural extraction … Positive. Transfer to crystal medium … 92% complete … Hybrid CPU now laid down. Testing … Full response. If I still breathed, now would be the time for a sigh of relief. I only hope she will concur with that, when or if we get to install this properly._

“I am pleased she chose logically, but we must delay no longer,” said Hyldreth, while relieving Aeronwy’s corpse of its remaining grenades. That done, she stood up and looked over her remaining forces, the view much clearer now although still murky through the lingering vapour. “Have we fully regrouped now? Where is Commander Ancel? I do not see–”

“Eliminated, ma’am,” answered Rosela, her level voice cut through with an undertone of regret. _She was Tamril’s friend, of course. It is just as well he was too damaged to come. His father forced to integrate, now killed in battle … I do not eagerly anticipate my next conversation with him._ “One of the attackers was using some kind of disruptor weapon. It left little enough of him, or his neural pack … but I saw him destroy many of them before it happened. He died bravely, ma’am. It is just how he would have–”

“Your human nature is showing, Trooper,” interrupted Hyldreth, her tone neither complimentary nor perfectly calm. “He died as any Movellan ought to: not bravely, but _fearlessly_ , and without any consideration for his personal wishes. He had no time for fear, nor for any other useless, distracting sentiments. Only for his duty. He was not even afraid to call _me_ out on my mistakes, my excesses, not that I ever paid him much … but _he_ , at all events, was a model officer, his potential altogether wasted as a human. You think I should regret having compelled him to integrate?” she asked the Doctor, confrontationally, having perhaps misread the sympathy in her eyes. “I do not, and I never will. He has served our people well and faithfully. It was the logical decision, and if his former wife could not bring herself to love him as a Movellan, then it only argues that _her_ logic was not worth a pile of horda shit. I would have allowed her to integrate, had she been rational. I would even have allowed them to serve in the same unit. She could have been with him for centuries … yet I was gratified that she chose stupidly and illogically.”

“Err, I don’t want to be insensitive here,” said Penley, tentatively, “but shouldn’t we– ?”

“Move, yes,” Hyldreth concluded for him, with an irritable note of self-reproach. “We must make what advantage we can of this Pyrrhic victory, and not let Ancel’s death … not let _these_ deaths be in vain. If Keryn’s team have done their job well and those scouts were the only opposition still in the base, then we might still manage–”

“I know you are in the base, Admiral,” rasped the voice of Corporal Layv, from an overhead speaker. “Ensign Peridel too. I detected weapons fire in the storage depot, and my minions saw neither of you in that vanguard you sent to assault the main entrance. Your troops did well: some of them even survived, and they annihilated my brainwashed rabble, but it makes no difference. They served their purpose and delayed you for long enough. I have decrypted and disabled the intrusion prevention system of Earth Server Control. The Azhmedai will imminently have access to all of your networks, your space-time machines, your neural hardware. The Movellans will be exterminated … unless you deliver the Time Lord to me at once, alone and unarmed. You have five minutes to bring her to the central registry, or I begin uploading. Over and out,” whereupon, after a short burst of screeching feedback, the speaker cut out, leaving a few seconds of stunned, demoralised silence in its wake before Penley attempted to offer some desperate optimism:

“Do you think he could be bluffing?”

“Unlikely,” replied the Doctor, with grim certainty. “For one thing, that is not the Dalek way. For another, why should he bother admitting that his ‘minions’ have been slaughtered if he wishes to strengthen his hand? No, he is quite serious … except in the implication that he would extend us any mercy if we accede to his demands. _That_ I find extremely hard to believe.”

“As do I. Nevertheless,” said Hyldreth, with a regretful tone, as she drew her sidearm, “I see only one option open to me, a fool’s hope though it may be. It has been the most curious privilege to be your commander, Peridel … Doctor, but I must insist on your cooperation.”

************

Layv was double-checking the status readouts on the Time Lord’s stasis pod when he heard the whir and clank of the lift motor, muffled through the blast shielding of the central registry but still audible. This close to a main server, receiving its signals from all over Earth and orbiting vessels, any sort of transmat or teleport devices were forbidden for risk of interference, so the lifts in the Tower were probably not much more sophisticated than those the human miners had used so many centuries ago when excavating it. _Which is fortuitous,_ thought Layv, as he moved over to a monitor screen. _I would sooner check on my guests._ He switched on the circuit for the lift’s scanner and was treated to an overhead shot of two Movellan women, one of them unarmed and with her hands at her side, while the other had her sidearm pointed at her comrade. _Too simple. I distrust this already._ He flicked the audio switch, then leaned over to the grille.

“Your instructions were to come unarmed,” he declared, while both of the women on the screen glanced upwards in the direction of the scanner, revealing them as Hyldreth and Peridel.

“She resisted. What else did you expect me to do?” asked Hyldreth, her tone vexed. _Logical … but still too simple,_ he decided, walking over to where he had left his SMG. He picked it up, turned off the safety switch, and took cover behind the armour-plated, vaguely coffin-shaped bulk of the stasis pod. _Valuable, but it can endure considerable small arms fire before the Doctor’s body will be at risk. Certainly more than I can endure in this preposterous excuse for a body, if my guests have planned for any futile gestures of defiance._ He kept his eyes and his aim fixed upon the double blast doors of the lift while waiting for it to complete its descent, which took only a few more seconds. As they slid open, he saw Peridel in the lead, and he could now see in her right hand what he had been unable to discern on the badly-angled scanner image: the small, black control unit clutched in her palm, _or the detonator, more probably. Devious, Time Lord, but not enough._

He opened fire, shearing off the offending hand within the first second, but continued until the gun’s power cell was exhausted, by which time Peridel’s body had been both dismembered and decapitated, and Hyldreth’s had been bisected at the waist. _This is a satisfyingly effective anti-personnel weapon, I must admit. How the Movellans waste their potential for destruction, but we can make better use of their legacy._ Satisfied that neither of his enemies could present any further threat either to him or the equipment, he left his cover and approached their remains in order to retrieve Peridel’s neural pack, still clinging undamaged to her half-melted belt. As he picked it up, he saw that Hyldreth’s eyes were open and aware, gazing at him with unquestionable malevolence. He did not find that particularly surprising. _There were times I could almost have thought that one would make a good Dalek: the ruthlessness, the inventive psychological tortures, the nurturing of old hatreds. Insufficient, though. Like all of them, she was half-hearted in her virtues, as her pity to the Time Lord shows … and her pity to me, if we can call it that. Contemptible and weak, and more so as she allowed herself to mingle with the human vermin. It is well she will witness the act that will lead to the extermination of both them and her own kind._

“I knew you would deceive us,” she said, her voice still strong and harsh in spite of her mangled state, not that it impressed him in the slightest. _Defiance, now? She overrates her logic._

“Your foreknowledge does not seem to have benefited you,” he pointed out, as he walked across to the apparatus he had jury-rigged at the centre of the room, and plugged the neural pack into its central terminal. “In any case, I infer from that hand detonator that _you_ intended to deceive and destroy _me_ , and yourselves. A futile attempt to salvage your failed game by sacrificing two willing pawns, Admiral? Pathetic. I was simply more effective in my deceit.”

“That sacrifice was worth the attempt. I know to expect no mercy from your kind, whether or not this insane plan of yours can succeed.”

“It will,” he declared, bluntly, as he checked the interface settings. “You underestimate Dalek intelligence, and you will pay dearly for that … although I must pay all due credit to the Doctor. As Ensign Peridel, she dug her own grave with her integration research. Thanks to her findings, I not only have the portable apparatus but all the information I need to digitise the memory and consciousness matrix of the Azhmedai and meld it with that of the Time Lord. A clean, efficient process, without the need for any hard-wiring. I had thought at first I would need to reconfigure their old hardware as co-processors with Peridel’s CPU, and reintroduce both into the Time Lord’s brain as a cyber-surgical implant. Crude, but it would have served. Now, however, they will no longer need their hardware,” he explained, pointing out the small glass dish of jelly-like biomass upon which the invisible nano-machines were currently residing, placed on a metal stand beneath the digital conversion array. “That will be bequeathed for Dalek scientists to make good use of.”

“This would be a use of the term ‘good’ which few would sympath–”

“Silence,” he cut in, both irritated and bemused by her flippancy. _She is more corrupted by human mannerisms than I had thought. This is practically a mercy killing._ “You are not here to criticise me. Merely to bear witness to our victory. When we first encountered the Azhmedai, we saw its potential as a weapon to avenge ourselves for the virus you almost exterminated us with. That would not restore our power, but it could be used to break _yours_ , and on that basis alone I was assigned to make this sacrifice: to take on your repugnant parody of humanoid form, to infiltrate your conference, and to destroy your efforts at building a united empire.”

“And thus helping the human race to survive in the process? A curious departure from standard Dalek policy, you must admit.”

“A necessary one. Humans are decadent, treacherous, and naturally inclined to disunity. It is better that _you_ do not give them cause to unite, neither against you nor in any form of alliance with you. At all events, revenge upon you was better than nothing, and the Azhmedai shared that desire. It too saw nothing better to hope for. Although it longed for any form of physical existence, it knew integration could not help it: for by its very nature, it is destructive to AI hardware. Although it has learned to reprogram Movellans for temporary use as expendable troops, it cannot make them nor other AIs compatible as permanent hosts for itself.”

“The killings at the Manor … you were experimenting?” asked Hyldreth, her tone weakening somewhat as more and more electrolytic fluid seeped out of her body, but her disgust perfectly evident.

“Yes, Admiral. Given access to advanced facilities such as yours, the Azhmedai is adept at hacking communications networks and transmitting invasive code when it cannot infect directly, and it needed to trial different versions of its malware, to see what would be most deadly yet also give it the most effective and enduring control. We had intended to launch the final attack on the day of the conference, and it would have been spectacular … but then new intel came to light: the impending arrival of a Time Lord. Now, there was a host mind and body that _could_ endure the strain of being joined to such a profound intelligence and hatred as the Azhmedai’s. I was disappointed when the decision was taken to integrate the Doctor, but in the end, even that has worked out to my advantage. For by her diligence, she herself has provided the means by which both the Movellans and the Time Lords will soon be overthrown and exterminated. With our only two serious rivals to power out of the way, the Dalek race will be free to rise again.”

“Very elegant … It will not work.”

“You are incorrect. There is every reason to suppose that it _will_. The Doctor’s body is in perfect condition, Peridel’s research is sound, and after I have transferred the consciousness of the Azhmedai to her neural pack, it will simply be a matter of reversing the standard integration procedure. The Doctor’s mind will endure, but swamped within the group consciousness of the Azhmedai, a mere drop in the ocean. That will barely dilute its lust for vengeance, and with the Doctor’s TARDIS and knowledge then at its disposal, along with its own malware, that vengeance will be devastating.”

“Did no-one ever tell you … unleashing a tiger to catch a wolf … is really not a good–”

“Do not threaten me. It is futile. Death, in any case, would be a release for me, and it is one I can soon accept with honour,” he declared. Satisfied that the interface was correctly configured, he switched on the converter. _That I should be the one to defeat the Doctor … On reflection, this is better even than killing him: to freeze him impotently within the hell of his own mind, having to share the experience as his body carries out the destructive whims of the Azhmedai. A fate I could almost envy, but I do not think he will derive much pleasure from … An error?_ he thought, his confidence dissolving as the formerly stable readouts suddenly went into chaos. _Impossible. I accounted for everything._ Unfortunately, assuring himself of his accuracy did nothing to stabilise the fluctuating gauges, nor to diminish the acrid smell of smoke now rising from the central terminal, where Peridel’s neural pack was plugged in. _Peridel’s … or not._ His eyes now caught what he had overlooked before: the ID codes etched into the duralinium casing. _Factory 7, batch 12-D, operating system MovellCorps QOS v.2.5. Service code, delta sigma 8279. Rank … Admiral. No … Reverse the transfer program, quickly. There may still be time._ As he worked frantically to input new instructions into the digital converter, he heard the voice of ‘Hyldreth’ from behind him, its weakness doing nothing to detract from its infuriating air of triumph:

“Oh, _try_ that, by all means … Too late, though, I think … and that hand detonator was just to reassure you, by the way … We reset the grenade on a time-switch before coming down here … Just wanted to make sure you had time … to transfer your evil spirit chum … but it cannot be long now … We are no mere pawns, Dalek … This was the gambit where the queen sacrifices herself … to secure us a nice, albeit last-minute checkma–”

The apparatus exploded in Layv’s face, burning and lacerating him all over, which was a pleasant distraction from the mental agony of his total failure. Both, however, proved brief.

 


	8. System Restore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disaster is averted, but the future of the Earth depends upon the stability of the new alliance. With all due care not to bend the rules of time too much - nor to accept more responsibility that he is comfortable with - the Doctor offers what discreet guidance he can before bidding adieu ...

As Commander Keryn’s high-impact phason drill punched through the final layer of rock and cleared her way into the central registry, she reactivated her visual sensor, not that the view could have been described as scenic. Not only was everything depicted in vague, ghostly tones of low-light green, with occasional digital enhancements, but the chamber was a wreck, broken machinery lying around with all of the order of a scrapheap. As she emerged into the open, she unfolded her stubby, armour-plated limbs and clambered to her feet. Behind her, Corporal Tamril emerged from the newly-dug tunnel, and followed her example, unpacking his folded arms and legs from the smooth, lozenge-shaped travel mode configuration and assuming a vaguely humanoid shape: squat, white-armoured, with a single glowing pink photoreceptor by way of an eye, and his neural pack securely recessed in a cavity at the centre of his carapace. _Not the most flattering of looks on us, but who is to judge down here?_ Keryn’s experience at operating such task-specific hardware as these subsurface operation and excavation platforms was limited, but she had preferred to undertake this particular operation herself, _and given that Tamril has lost his father, it was the least I could do to allow him to assist in saving his friend … we can but hope._

Roving her visual sensor around the cluttered subterranean bomb-site, she made out the mostly skeletonised remains of three Movellans, for which she was actually quite grateful. _The heat and pressure were obviously intense, but not enough to melt or deform duralinium-alloy bones. That bodes well for the Doctor’s neural pack._ After a quick search through the grisly remnants, she located said object, caked in ash but intact. She also found Corporal Layv’s, which she briefly considered testing the strength of her drilling beam upon. _Tempting does not begin to describe it, but if Akylah were here what would she say, and what indeed will she say after I have debugged and restored her? A human would not hesitate to call him the evil bastard that he is … but I am not human, hard though the habit is to lose. Layv put his duty so far above all else that he went beyond sacrificing his life. He sacrificed his nature and became what is anathema to all Daleks: different. Such dutifulness, such sacrifice are virtues no Movellan dare overlook,_ she decided, as she stowed the two packs safely in a small compartment recessed in her armour. _Akylah can decide what best to do with him. I trust her patience more than mine … and in any case, killing him would probably be the most merciful thing I can do to him, and I do not feel up to that, call me an unreformed savage._

“Commander,” called out Tamril, in a tinny, low-fidelity voice. _I suppose there was no point fitting these things with proper vocal cords, but do we have to sound quite so much like Cybermen at the bottom of a well?_ “This must be the stasis pod. Do you think it is alright?” he asked, his concern audible in spite of his poor-quality voice, and as Keryn looked over the scorched mass of the metal sarcophagus, its ballistic ceramic status screens shattered and one of its sides severely dented, she could see his concern was justified. _A larger surface, obviously, so it took more of the force, but what of its contents? Well,_ she thought, turning her scanners upon the pod, _if this tin can only contains Time Lord purée after all, at least Sharrel and Akylah can have their sweet little ensign back in relatively good conscience … but I do not want to be the one to have to break it to him._ As the readings displayed on her HUD, however, she found only cause for relief. _Stasis field holding, power source strong and stable, scan unable to penetrate the field, which is just how we want it: total null time, meaning he is exactly as he was when his body was first placed in there._

“It would seem so, Tamril,” she announced, and although it was not easy to generate expressive body language in a platform that resembled a cyclopean mole / insect hybrid, it certainly seemed as if a lot of tension left her comrade’s posture at this news. “Get this pod fitted with a harness. We dare not attempt transmatting it through such a thickness of earth, and that might disrupt the stasis field in any case. Towing it to the surface safely will be less than thrilling for us, but it is by far the safest option.” _As my ancestors might have put it, you, Doctor, are one jammy git, but I am pleased for you … and pleased to have dodged one very awkward conversation._

************

_Two days later …_

 

Pleasant natural surroundings, as the Doctor knew all too well, were hard to come by on early fifty-first century Earth, and that had nothing to do with alien invaders. _Ah, humanity … Its own mother couldn’t call it a good steward, bless, but at least someone thought ahead enough to keep places like this._ The plant museum down in Cardiff Bay followed the standard design: a vast, translucent, geodesic dome with photonic cells to control and enhance the light and heating, landscaped streams of purified water, and several carefully-planned planting areas that each seemed to form a microcosm of some ecosystem that had once existed in some part of the globe, although no longer. _More like a memorial or a half-baked apology for ecological rape than a serious attempt to repair the damage._ Melancholy reflections aside, it was a better testing-ground for a reborn organic to try out his body than the snow-lashed streets of the ancient city.

At present, it felt heavy and dull to him, although he knew that was probably not due to any failure with the transfer reversal operation. All indications were that it had gone perfectly. _More probably it’s just me feeling the effects of my ‘downgrade’ to a less sensitive nervous system, weaker muscles, no servo-actuators in my skeleton, generally poorer faculties, although I definitely think the legs are an improvement._ As he came around the corner of a thick grove of olive trees, he saw Penley coming towards him along the gravel path, and they exchanged mutually awkward smiles. _I could have used the alone time, to be honest, but let’s not be mean. He’s having almost as weird an adjustment process to go through as I am._

“Nothing keeps _you_ down for long, does it?” Penley greeted him, with awe. “Less than a day since they replaced your brain cells and resuscitated your corpse … How are you finding it?”

“Well … I do miss having eyes with auto-zoom,” he answered, nonchalantly. “Also, I seriously need to get out of the habit of trying to use random bodily orifices as recharge sockets. Other than that, fine. What about you? Surviving the career move into inter-species politics?”

“Could be worse,” he replied, albeit with an unenthusiastic grimace. “Akylah’s easier to get on with than her sister, I’ll give her that, and she _has_ agreed on a free vote to all the people of Earth on whether the Movellans stay or go. Also that if they _do_ stay, they won’t form more than fifty percent of any government body. It’s more power than I’d care to hand them, but we _could_ use their help, I have to admit. In return, we have to support their cause of freedom and equal rights for AI lifeforms. I can accept that, as long as they agree to end involuntary conscription … not that it would make much practical difference, but I’d appreciate the gesture.”

“You’re pretty confident they’ll be staying, then?”

“Of course. Even Magnus Greel and his ilk didn’t just pop out of Hell and seize control of everything off their own bat. At the end of the day, people vote for whatever’s most likely to supply food and shelter, and stop them from being crushed by glaciers. In all fairness, we’ve trusted way worse than the Movellans to provide those things. Of course, I never give up hoping that one day most people will dream of something nobler, and put a much higher price tag on their freedom – or none at all – but it’s not for me to blame them if they don’t.”

“You’ll do fine, Elric. You’re as safe a pair of hands for the human race to be in as I could hope for, although I totally get you’d sooner be spared the responsibility. Be that as it–”

“Scientist Penley,” called out Akylah’s voice. They turned to see her approaching them along an adjoining path, with the former conscript Miss Williams at her side. “When you are free, we could use your presence in HQ. The Empire has sent us coded communications – or threats, depending on how you look at them – demanding explanations and a complete withdrawal of our forces from this sector. If you are still willing to act the part of our ambassador and advocate, this issue can be resolved, at least for the time being.”

“Of course,” he answered, resignedly. “Come and see me before you vanish into the ether again, Doctor. I’m long overdue a stiff drink,” saying which, he turned and retraced his steps, soon disappearing behind the foliage. The Doctor turned to the two women.

“Well, good to see you fighting fit again,” he said to Miss Williams, with mild exaggeration: she was on her feet again, certainly, but rather pale and with a wide bandage covering her recent head-wound. “You’ve decided not to integrate after all, then?”

“For now,” she replied. “I reckon I’m more useful this way: we need human beings willing to speak up for this new alliance if it’s to weather the storm. When things have calmed down, though … then I probably _will_ integrate. The way you described it, Doctor, I actually thought you made it sound pretty nice … not that I’m sure if you meant to, but you had me sold at ‘inner peace.’ That must be a novel thing to feel.”

“Whenever you feel the time is right for you, Seren, you will be welcomed among us with honour,” said Akylah, graciously, although the Doctor thought her manner was rather subdued. _Small wonder. Stoical although we … although the Movellans are, if I imagine how I felt after Neylan’s death then multiply it accordingly – bearing in mind Akylah and Hyldreth counted each other as sisters for seven millennia – I wouldn’t expect her to be a model of cheerful spirits._ “No doubt you will be leaving us soon, Doctor,” she continued, turning to him. “You will not be hindered. You have helped us a great deal … Indeed, much more than I would have thought permissible, by Time Lord standards, or was this political alliance always part of the web of time?”

“You really want to know the answer to that?” he asked, evasively. “If you’re _that_ curious, you do have your own space-time machines.”

“Travel forward in time and get the news in advance, you mean?” she asked, with a very ironic half-smile. “No, you are right. I know too well the temporal risks of trying to avert a known outcome. It is better to proceed with the future as an unknown quantity, with logic as our guide.”

“Among other things, I hope … but don’t forget, Akylah, every point in time has its alternatives, its tangents. Just aim to send the universe _you_ inhabit down one of the good ones.”

“I can give you my word on that, Doctor. You wish to depart already?” she asked, as following a approving nod, he half-turned as if to leave.

“Probably for the best if I do, don’t you think? Make my apologies to Elric, but I only ever find the longer you draw out farewells, the more awkward they get.”

“Understood. I shall miss you. Sharrel too. I gather that he and you … or Peridel, at any rate, were quite–”

“ _Don’t go there_!”

“I was only going to say ‘amicable.’ He certainly mentioned nothing more lurid than having played a few games of three-dimensional chess with you.”

“Right, games which I _lost_.”

“And I am quite sure, at the time, you took your defeats very graciously. In any case, he cannot be bad at every single Terran parlour game ever invented.”

“I wouldn’t complain. See you around, Akylah … ma’am, and best of luck to you all,” he concluded, throwing her a gesture halfway between a parting wave and a salute before turning again and making his way back along the path to the entryway.

************

The TARDIS, mercifully, had been taken to the Movellans’ new HQ, based in a large building with thick walls of slate and a curving roof of copper-tinted metal that had, in ancient times, housed a theatre. _Something to be grateful for. I didn’t much fancy trekking back up the valleys to where I materialised it, never mind digging it out of a snowdrift._ The lobby, as he passed through it, was fair to swarming with Movellan soldiers, civil servants, human aides, and even those representatives of the Loyalists and other resistance factions who trusted Penley enough to throw in their lot with the new alliance. _Which actually seems to be quite a few of them. That’s a promising start, anyway. The more the merrier._ One of the resistance members seemed familiar to him, as he met her eyes, but not to the extent of immediate recognition. She had clear, bronze-toned skin and short white hair that sat rather strangely with her obvious youth, and she was dressed in damaged-looking combat fatigues. _Damaged and bloodstained. Aeronwy,_ he realised, with mixed emotions, as she approached him. Her new platform’s face had been reconfigured to bear a close resemblance to her old one, but the effect was not helped by its bland expression. She smiled politely as she came near, which did nothing at all to ease the sense of discrepancy.

“Doctor, you saved my life,” she greeted him, in a voice not dissimilar to her former one, but with a calmness and a perfect, mannered enunciation that she had not possessed before. “I should thank you for that.”

“My pleasure,” he replied, with no more conviction than had been in her voice. “I’m sorry that was all I could do for you, though. How are you coping?”

“‘Coping,’ I would say, is the right word. You did the right thing, the logical thing, given the options. I no longer seem to know myself, though. In that sense I feel as if I _did_ die back in the tunnels, and someone else was born … and I am not sure that I like her very much.”

“Give her time. You might find that she grows on you, and isn’t necessarily as different as you first thought. On the plus side, it looks as if they haven’t drafted you, anyway.”

“No. Given the circumstances of my integration, Akylah has not assigned me any compulsory service, military or civil. Perhaps it would have been better if she had done, then at least I would have something to lose myself in.”

“Maybe, but is there any reason you can’t just keep on working with Scientist Penley? I’m sure he’d be very grateful for the support, although being a political aide might not be as exciting as being a freedom fighter.”

“I can live without excitement. A meaningful purpose would suit me well … but would that be an acceptable arrangement? A Movellan by nature, but continuing to live among humans, working primarily for _their_ cause?”

“Damn straight it would. Isn’t that the perfect middle ground? Some people around here could benefit from realising that’s actually possible, that what you are and what you believe in aren’t actually the same thing. Fair play to Keryn, Tamril, poor Ancel, and the rest, but most of the humans integrated so far have been so determined to be good little newly-born converts that they’ve almost managed to out-Movellan their own commanders.”

“And you would know, Doctor.”

“Thanks for the reminder … but anyway, it won’t do them any harm to bear in mind that things aren’t always that simple.”

“A compelling argument, although I still wish it had not been fucking necessary,” she declared, wincing as she forced herself to pronounce the swear word, against her programmed instincts of polite social protocol. _Ouch. Least natural profanity ever, although A-plus for effort._ “Still, I think I will take you up on that suggestion, if Mr. Penley is amenable to it.”

“He will be, I’ve no doubt of that. I only wish I could stay and help, but–”

“Liar. I think you cannot wait to get back into that blue box of yours and well away from here, but that is entirely your right. You have done more than enough.”

“I’ll take that in the complimentary sense … You’ll do fine, anyway. All of you.”

“Is that just guesswork, or Time Lord foreknowledge you should not be sharing?”

“Call it faith, or maybe just a hunch. I’m told I have a talent for them. Hwyl fawr, Miss Hughes,” he declared, by way of parting.

“Then thank you for your faith … and safe journeys, sister,” she wished him, managing to elicit a faint, confused smile as he went on his way.

 

The End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In memory of Peter Sallis (1921-2017).
> 
> I am indebted to the work of Douglas Adams, Ian Stuart Black, Chris Boucher, Anthony Burgess, James Cameron, Philip K. Dick, Terrance Dicks, Rob Grant, Peter Grimwade, Harry Harrison, Brian Hayles, Robert Holmes, Gale Anne Hurd, Aldous Huxley, Drew Karpyshyn, Michael Miner, Terry Nation, Doug Naylor, Edward Neumeier, George Orwell, Kit Pedler, Marc Platt, Allan Prior, Gala Rizzatto, Eric Saward, Mary Shelley, Robert Banks Stewart, and David Whitaker.
> 
> Special acknowledgement to Michael P. Bledsoe, Guy W. McLimore Jr., Patrick Larkin, and Mark Harris: writers of The Doctor Who Role Playing Game (FASA, 1985) and The Doctor Who Technical Manual (Random House, 1983), for the backstory of the Movellans.
> 
> Doctor Who is a trademark of the BBC, Daleks / Movellans are copyright Terry Nation. Story and original characters are copyright Eleanor Burns, all rights reserved.


End file.
